HANDY -y VOLUME; CLASSICS^ IBM l l lH l iH8B 3 aBffl Hill I i| EfflSfflinmwaHSnJi': op mm miff 81 EM ■ HlffiffiH HhhBHI ill IffiimflKlrwnwIrttlH mm lllll Class "Pg *gq Book , /j fo Copyright N°_ C-OPYRICHT DEPOSIT. ONE HUNDRED BEST AMERICAN POEMS Henry W. Longfellow. ONE HUNDRED BEST AMERICAN POEMS SELECTED BY JOHN R. HOWARD MANAGING EDITOR OF THE LIBRARY OF "THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY " NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY PUBLISHERS T «3 V^ LIBRARY of CONGRESS Two Conies Received JAN 9 1906 n Copyright Entry CLASS <£ XXc, No. / Z 7 / fO COPY B. Copyright, 1905, BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. PREFACE This grouping of American poems had its rise in the welcome accorded to a little volume entitled " The Hundred Best English Poems," issued by the same publishers. To select one hundred examples from the best work by our American poets, excluding all living authors, and avoiding an undue proportion of pieces by the few acknowledged to be preeminent, has been a puzzling although a pleasant task. Of course, no two editors would select the same hundred pieces from the sixty-four poets here represented. Any one familiar with our poeti- cal literature will miss here certain favorites, and perhaps would criticize some of the selec- tions. This is inevitable. It is not always the most finished art which expresses feelings and " thoughts that shall live within the general mind." Many a simple poem has touched the popular heart by virtue of some genuine emotion or idea, melodiously if not artistically versified ; and some of these will be found herein, because they have out- INDEX OF AUTHORS Arnold, George (1834- 1865). 93. September .... Beers, Ethelinda Elliott (1 825-1 879). 78. All Quiet along the Potomac Blood, Henry Ames (1 838-1 900). 94. Song of the Savoyards Boker, George Henry (1 823-1 890). 75. The Black Regiment . Boner, John Henry (1 845-1 903). 98. Poe's Cottage at Fordham . Brainard, John Gardiner Calkins (i 9. The Fall of Niagara . Bryant, William Cullen (1 794-1 878) 16. Thanatopsis 17. The Crowded Street . 18. The Death of the Flowers . 19. To a Waterfowl . 20. To the Fringed Gentian Cary, Alice (1820-1871). 71. Pictures of Memory . Cary, Phcebe (1824-1871). 72. Nearer Home Cooke, Philip Pendleton (181 6-1 850) 58. Life in the Autumn Woods Cooke, Rose Terry (1 826-1 892). 80. Reve du Midi . ix 796-1 828) PAGE 292 26l 295 252 306 44 48 50 53 55 240 242 186 267 X INDEX OF AUTHORS Cranch, Christopher Pearse (i 873-1 892). 56. The Bobolinks . Dana, Richard Henry (1 787-1879). 7. The Little Beach-bird Dickinson, Emily (1 830-1 886). 88. I Never Saw a Moor . 89. Indian Summer . Drake, Joseph Rodman (1 795-1 820). 10. The American Flag n. The Culprit Fay {Extract) . D wight, Timothy ( 1752-18 17). 2. Columbia .... Emerson, Ralph Waldo (1 803-1 882). 32. To the Humble-bee 2,Z> The Rhodora 34. Each and All 35. The Problem 36. Good-by Freneau, Philip (1 752-1 832) 1. The Wild Honeysuckle Greene, Albert Gorton (1802- 1868) 23. The Baron's Last Banquet . Halleck, Fitz-Greene (1 790-1867). 12. Joseph Rodman Drake 13. Marco Bozzaris . Hayne, Paul Hamilton (1 830-1 886). 86. Preexistence 87. In Harbor .... Hoffman, Charles Fenno (1806-1884) 28. Sparkling and Bright . Holland, Josiah Gilbert (1819-1881) 60. Cradle Song (from "Bitter-sweet") INDEX OF AUTHORS xi PAGE Holmes, Oliver Wendell (i 809-1 894). 49. The Chambered Nautilus 157 50. Old Ironsides *59 51. The Deacon's Masterpiece {The One-Hoss Shay) 160 52. The Voiceless . . . . . f . .166 Hovey, Richard (1 864-1 900). 100. The Faun 311 Howland, May Woolsey (183 2- 1864). 91. Rest 289 Ingalls, John James (i 833-1900). 92. Opportunity 291 Jackson, Helen Hunt (1 831-1885). 90. Habeas Corpus 286 Judson, Emily Chubbuck (181 7-1 854). 59. Watching 191 Key, Francis Scott (1 779-1 843). 3. The Star-spangled Banner . . . . . 7 Kinney, Coates (1826-1904)0 8^. Rain on the Roof 272 Lanier, Sidney (1842-1881). 96. Song of the Chattahoochee .... 302 97. A Ballad of Trees and the Master . . . 304 Longfellow, Henry Wads worth (i 807-1 882). 38. Hymn to the Night 120 39. The Arsenal at Springfield 121 40. The Fire of Driftwood 125 41. Resignation 127 42. Sea-weed 130 43. The Day is Done 132 Lowell, James Russell (1819-1891). 62. To the Dandelion 201 63. Rhoecus ........ 204 xh INDEX OF AUTHORS PAGE Lowell — continued. 64. The Present Crisis 212 65. She Came and Went 221 Lytle, William Haines (1 826-1 863). 79. Antony to Cleopatra - 264 McLellan, Isaac (1 806-1 899). 37. New England's Dead 117 McMaster, Guy Humphrey (i 829-1 887). 85. Carmen Bellicosum 277 Moore, Clement Clarke (1779-1863). 4. A Visit from St. Nicholas 10 Morris, George Pope (1 802-1 864). 22. Woodman, Spare that Tree .... 60 Osgood, Frances Sargent (181 2-1 850). 54. Labor 172 Percival, James Gates (1 795-1 856). 15. The Coral Grove ...... 42 Pinkney, Edward Coate (1 802-1 828.) 21. A Health 57 Poe, Edgar Allan (1 809-1 849). 29. For Annie 85 30. The Bells 90 31. The Raven 95 Read, Thomas Buchanan (1 822-1 872). 73. Drifting 244 74. Sheridan's Ride 248 Ryan, Abram Joseph (1 839-1 886). 95. Sentinel Songs ....... 299 Sewall, Harriet Winslow (1 819-1892). 61. Why thus Longing ? 198 Simms, William Gilmore (1 806-1 870). 27. The Lost Pleiad 80 INDEX OF AUTHORS Xlll PAGE Spencer, Caroline (i 850-1 898). 99. Living Waters 309 Sprague, Charles (1 791-1875). 14. The Winged Worshippers 40 Stoddard, Richard Henry (1 825-1 903). 81. It Never Comes Again . . . . .270 82. The Sea 271 Story, William Wetmore (181 9-1 895). 69. The Violet 236 Stowe, Harriet Beecher (181 2-1 896). 57. Only a Year 183 Street^ Alfred Billings (1811-1881). 53. The Settler 168 Taylor, Bayard (1 825-1 878). 76. Bedouin Love-Song 256 77. The Arab to the Palm 258 Timrod, Henry (1 829-1 867). 84. Dreams 275 TUCKERMAN, HENRY THEODORE (1813-1871). 55. To an Elm 176 Welby, Amelia Coppuck (i 821-1852). 70. The Old Maid 238 Whitman, Sarah Helen (i 803-1 878). 24. A Still Day in Autumn 66 Whitman, Walt (1 819-1892). 66. What is the Grass ? 223 67. O Captain ! my Captain !..... 229 68. Give me the Splendid Silent Sun . . .231 Whittier, John Greenleaf (1 807-1 892). 44. The Angel of Patience 135 45. The Barefoot Boy 136 46. Burns , , 141 xiv INDEX OF AUTHORS PAGE Whittier — continued. 47. The Reformer 147 48. The Eve of Election 152 Willis, Nathaniel Parker (1807-1892). 25. Parrhasius 69 26. Unseen Spirits 78 Woodworth, Samuel (1 785-1 842). . 5. The Bucket 14 ONE HUNDRED BEST AMERICAN POEMS >X*< PHILIP FRENEAU The Wild Honeysuckle Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, Hid in this silent, dull retreat, Untouched thy honied blossoms blow, Unseen thy little branches greet : No roving foot shall crush thee here, No. busy hand provoke a tear. By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, And planted here the guardian shade, And sent soft waters murmuring by ; PHILIP FRENEAU Thus quietly thy summer goes, Thy days declining to repose. Smit with those charms that must decay, I grieve to see your future doom ; They died — nor were those flowers more gay, The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; Unpitying frosts and Autumn's power Shall leave no vestige of this flower. From morning suns and evening dews At first thy little being came ; If nothing once, you nothing lose, For when you die you are the same ; The space between is but an hour, The frail duration of a flower. TIMOTHY DWIGHT 2 Columbia Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world and the child of the skies ! Thy genius commands thee ; with rapture be- hold, While ages on ages thy splendors unfold. Thy reign is the last and the noblest of time, Most fruitful thy soil, most inviting thy clime ; Let the crimes of the East ne'er encrimson thy name, Be freedom and science and virtue thy fame. To conquest and slaughter let Europe aspire ; Whelm nations in blood, and wrap cities in fire ; Thy heroes the rights of mankind shall defend, And triumph pursue them, and glory attend. A world is thy realm ; for a world be thy laws Enlarged as thine empire, and just as thy cause ; 3 4 TIMOTHY DWIGHT On Freedom's broad basis that empire shall rise, Extend with the main, and dissolve with the skies, Fair Science her gates to thy sons shall unbar, And the East see thy morn hide the beams of her star ; New bards and new sages unrivalled shall soar To fame unextinguished when time is no more ; To thee, the last refuge of virtue designed, Shall fly from all nations the best of mankind ; Here, grateful to Heaven, with transport shall bring Their incense, more fragrant than odors of spring. Nor less shall thy fair ones to glory ascend, And genius and beauty in harmony blend ; The graces of form shall awake pure desire, And the charms of the soul ever cherish the fire; Their sweetness unmingled, their mannefs refined, TIMOTHY DWIGHT 5 And virtue's bright image enstamped on the mind, With peace and soft rapture shall teach life to glow, And light up a smile on the aspect of woe. Thy fleets to all regions thy power shall display, The nations admire, and the ocean obey ; Each shore to thy glory its tribute unfold, And the East and the South yield their spices and gold. As the day spring unbounded thy splendor shall flow, And earth's little kingdoms before thee shall bow, While the ensigns of union, in triumph unfurled, Hush the tumult of war, and give peace to the world. Thus, as down a lone valley, with cedars o'er- spread, From war's dread confusion, I pensively strayed, — 6 TIMOTHY DVVIGHT The gloom from the face of fair heaven retired ; The wind ceased to murmur, the thunders ex- pired ; Perfumes, as of Eden, flowed sweetly along, And a voice, as of angels, enchantingly sung : " Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise, The queen of the world, and the child of the skies ! " FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 3 The Star-spangled Banner O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, — Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gal- lantly streaming ! And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there ; O ! say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ? On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 7 8 FRANCIS SCOTT KEY Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now dis- closes ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream ; 'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave ! And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's con- fusion A home and a country should leave us no more ? Their blood has washed out their foul foot- steps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 9 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave ; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. O ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation ! Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heav'n- rescued land Praise the power that hath made and pre- served us a nation. Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, And this be our motto — " In God is our trust" And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE 4 A Visit from St. Nicholas 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse ; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads ; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,— When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 10 CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE II Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow Gave a lustre of mid-day to objects below ; When what to my wondering eyes should ap- pear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name : " Now, Dasher ! now, Dancer ! now, Prancer and Vixen ! On, Comet ! on, Citpid ! on, Donder and Blitzen ! To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall ! Now dash away, dash away, dash away all ! " As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, — and St. Nicholas too. 12 CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot ; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how merry ! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry ; His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath ; CLEMENT CLARKE MOORE 13 He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, — a right jolly old elf, And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself ; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread ; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 11 Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night ! " SAMUEL WOODWORTH 5 The Bucket How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it ; And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 14 SAMUEL WOODWORTH 1 5 That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield, How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- flowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips ! Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 16 SAMUEL WOODWORTH And now, far removed from the loved habita- tion, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my fathers plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! JOHN PIERPONT 6 The Pilgrim Fathers The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore ; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflozver moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide ; And the rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone, — As an angel's wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn. 17 18 JOHN PIERPONT The Pilgrim exile — sainted name ! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head, — But the Pilgrim ! where is he ? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest : When summer is throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day, On that hallowed spot is cast ; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. JOHN PIERPONT 19 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And still guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. RICHARD HENRY DANA 7 The Little Beach-bird Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly ? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, As driven by a beating storm at sea ; Thy cry is weak and scared, As if thy mates had shared The doom of us : thy wail, — What doth it bring to me ? Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, Restless and sad ; as if, in strange accord With the motion and the roar Of waves that drive to shore, 20 RICHARD HENRY DANA 21 One spirit did ye urge — The Mystery — the Word. Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, Old Ocean ! A requiem o'er the dead From out thy gloomy cells A tale of mourning tells, — Tells of man's woe and fall, His sinless glory fled. Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit never more ; Come, quit with me the shore, And on the meadows light Where birds for gladness sing ! RICHARD HENRY WILD 8 To the Mocking-bird "i> Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! Who shall thy gay buffoonery describe ? Thine ever ready notes of ridicule Pursue thy fellows still with jest and gibe. Wit, sophist, songster, Yorick of thy tribe, Thou sportive satirist of Nature's school, To thee the palm of scoffing we ascribe, Arch-mocker and mad Abbot of Misrule ! For such thou art by day — but all night long Thou pourest a soft, sweet, pensive, solemn strain, As if thou didst in this thy moonlight song Like to the melancholy Jacques complain, Musing on falsehood, folly, vice, and wrong, And sighing for thy motley coat again. 22 JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD 9 The Fall of Niagara The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, And hung his bow upon thine awful front, And spoke in that loud voice which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake The sound of many waters ; and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch his centuries in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime ? O, what are all the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side ? 23 24 JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar ? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains ? — a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 10 The American Flag When Freedom, from her mountain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ! She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light ; Then, from his mansion in the sun, She called her eagle-bearer down, And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud ! Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, 2 5 26 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — Child of the sun ! to thee 'tis given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory ! Flag of the brave ! thy folds shall fly The sign of hope and triumph high ! When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on, Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud And gory sabres rise and fall Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 27 Then shall thy meteor glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given ! Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, 28 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ! * ii The Culprit Fay n My visual orbs are purged from film, and, lo ! Instead of Anster's turnip-bearing vales, I see old fairy-land's miraculous show ! Her trees of tinsel kissed by freakish gales, Her ouphes that, cloaked in leaf-gold, skim the breeze, And fairies, swarming ..." Tennant's Anster Fair, 'Tis the middle watch of a summer's night, — The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright ; Naught is seen in the vault on high But the moon, and the stars, and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue, A river of light on the welkin blue. 1 The last four lines are by Halleck. Those originally written by Drake were thus : — " And fixed as yonder orb divine, That saw thy bannered blaze unfurled, Shall thy proud stars resplendent shine, The guard and glory of the world." JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 29 The moon looks down on old Cro'nest ; She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below. His sides are broken by spots of shade, By the walnut bough and the cedar made ; And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the firefly's spark, — Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest's rack. The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnished length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below ; The winds are whist, and the owl is still ; The bat in the shelvy rock is hid ; And naught is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket's chirp, and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katydid; And the plaint of the wailing whippoorwill, Who moans unseen, and ceaseless sings 30 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE Ever a note of wail and woe, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell : The wood-tick has kept the minutes well ; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak, And he has awakened the sentry elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And calls the fays to their revelry ; Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell) : " Midnight comes, and all is well ! Hither, hither wing your way ! 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullein's velvet screen ; Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 31 And rocked about in the evening breeze ; Some from the hum-bird's downy nest, — They had driven him out by elfin power, And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, Had slumbered there till the charmed hour ; Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, With glittering ising-stars inlaid ; And some had opened the four-o'clock, And stole within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above, below, on every side,- — Their little minim forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride ! They come not now to print the lea, In freak and dance around the tree, Or at the mushroom board to sup, And drink the dew from the buttercup : A scene of sorrow waits them now, For an ouphe has broken his vestal vow ; He has loved an earthly maid, And left for her his woodland shade ; 32 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE He has lain upon her lip of dew, And sunned him in her eye of blue, Fanned her cheek with his wing of air, Played in the ringlets of her hair, And, nestling on her snowy breast, Forgot the lily-king's behest. For this the shadowy tribes of air To the elfin court must haste away : And now they stand expectant there, To hear the doom of the culprit fay. 1 1 It is impracticable in our limited space to give the whole of this exquisite piece of fancy, written by Drake (within three days) to prove to Halleck, Cooper, and DeKay that American rivers might be made as romantic as the streams celebrated in Scottish poetry. The flavor of it, however, appears in the introductory stanzas here printed. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 12 On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. When hearts whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth ; And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine ; 33 34 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bid me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. 13 Marco Bozzaris At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power : In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams his song of triumph heard ; Then wore his monarch's signet ring : Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird. FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 35 At midnight, in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood On old Plataea's day ; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquered there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far as they. An hour passed on — the Turk awoke ; That bright dream was his last ; He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek ! " He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain-cloud ; And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band. 36 FITZ-GREENE HALLECK " Strike — till the last armed foe expires ; Strike — for your altars and your fires ; Strike — for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land ! " They fought — like brave men, long and well ; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke ; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 37 Come when the heart beats high and warm, With banquet-song, and dance, and wine ; And thou art terrible — the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought — Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought — Come in her crowning hour — and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men ; Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land ; Thy summons welcome as the cry That told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, 38 F1TZ-GREENE HALLECK When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas. Bozzaris ! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee — there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch of death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb : But she remembers thee as one Long loved and for a season gone. For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed ; For thee she rings the birthday bells ; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells ; For thine her evening prayer is said At palace couch, and cottage bed ; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow ; FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 39 His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears ; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys, And even she who gave thee birth, Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh ; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's : One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. CHARLES SPRAGUE 14 The Winged Worshippers 1 Gay, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend ? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep. Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; 1 u Addressed to two swallows that flew into the Chauncey vie 40 Place church during divine service." CHARLES SPRAGUE 41 Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Or, if ye stay, To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. Above the crowd, On upward wings could I but fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the sky. 'Twere Heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar. On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great God adore. JAMES GATES PERCIVAL 15 The Coral Grove Deep in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and goldfish rove, Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow ; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; The water is calm and still below, For the winds and waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air : There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water, And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter : 42 JAMES GATES PERCIVAL 43 There with a light and easy motion, The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea : And life, in rare and beautiful forms, Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful Spirit of storms Has made the top of the wave his own : And when the ship from his fury flies, Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar, When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; Then far below, in the peaceful sea, The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, Where the waters murmur tranquilly, Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1 6 Thanatopsis To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ; — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice : — Yet a few days, and thee 44 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 45 The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements, To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 46 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregan, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet — the dead are there ; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 47 So shalt thou rest — and what if thou withdraw Unheeded by the living — and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves 48 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 17 The Crowded Street Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-shifting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain. How fast the flitting figures come ! The mild, the fierce, the stony face ; Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace. They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest ; To halls in which the feast is spread ; WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 49 To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead. • And some to happy homes repair, Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,* With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak. And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more. Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! Goest thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die ? Keen son of trade, with eager brow ! Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air ? Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleam again ? 50 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? • Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold dark hours, how slow the light ! And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, They pass, and heed each other not. There is who heeds, who holds them all, In His large love and boundless thought. These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end. 1 8 The Death of the Flowers The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mead- ows brown and sear. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 51 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the with- ered leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain, Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 52 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 53 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side ; In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief : Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. 19 To a Waterfowl Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way ? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 54 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near, And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 55 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart. He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone Will lead my steps aright. 20 To the Fringed Gentian Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest, when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night. Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, 56 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end. Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall. I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart EDWARD COATE PINKNEY A Health I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex • The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'Tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows, 57 58 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, — The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, EDWARD COATE PINKNEY 59 A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon. Her health ! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. GEORGE POPE MORRIS 22 Woodman, Spare that Tree Woodman, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not. That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea — And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; Oh, spare that aged oak Now towering to the skies ! 60 GEORGE POPE MORRIS 6l When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here ; My father pressed my hand — Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand. My heartstrings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree ! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot ; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. ALBERT GORTON GREENE 23 The Baron's Last Banquet O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where in his last strong agony a dying warrior lay, The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. " They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er, That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more ; They come, and to my beard they dare to tell me now, that I, Their own liege lord and master born, — that I, ha ! ha ! must die. 62 ALBERT GORTON GREENE 63 " And what is Death? I've dared him oft be- fore the Paynim spear, — Think ye he's entered at my gate, has come to seek me here ? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot, — I'll try his might — I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him not. ^ "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin, — Bid each retainer arm with speed, — call every vassal in, Up with my banner on the wall, — the banquet board prepare ; Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there ! " An hundred hands were busy then — the ban- quet forth was spread — And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread, While from the rich, dark tracery along the vaulted wall, 64 ALBERT GORTON GREENE Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board, ^hile at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair of state, Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. " Fill every beaker up, my men, pour forth the cheering wine ; There's life and strength in every drop, — thanksgiving to the vine ! Are ye all there, my vassals true ? — mine eyes are waxing dim ; Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim. " You're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword ALBERT GORTON GREENE 65 And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board ; I hear it faintly: — Louder yet ! — What clogs my heavy breath ? Up all, and shout for Rudiger, ' Defiance unto Death ! ' " Bowl rang to bowl — steel clanged to steel — and rose a deafening cry That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high : — " Ho ! cravens, do ye fear him ? — Slaves, trai- tors ! have ye flown ? Ho ! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone ! " But I defy him : — let him come ! " Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing halfway up ; And with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There in his dark, carved oaken chair Old Rudiger sat, — dead. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN 24 A Still Day in Atitumn I love to wander through the woodlands hoary In the soft light of an autumnal day, When Summer gathers up her robes of glory, And like a dream of beauty glides away. How through each loved, familiar path she lin- gers, Serenely smiling through the golden mist, Tinting the wild grape with her dewy fingers Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst ; Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls, With hoary plumes the clematis entwining Where o'er, the rock her withered garland falls. 66 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN 67 Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams through their fringes raining Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. The moist winds breathe of crisped leaves and flowers In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound. Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brood- ing, Like a fond lover loath to say farewell, Or with shut wings, through silken folds in- truding, Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale to tell. 68 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN The little birds upon the hillside lonely Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, Silent as a sweet wandering thought that only Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 25 Parrhasius There stood an unsold captive in the mart, A gray-haired and majestical old man, Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, And the last seller from the place had gone, And not a sound was heard but of a dog Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, As the faint captive changed his weary feet. He had stood there since morning, and had borne From every eye in Athens the cold gaze Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer Passed on ; and when, with weariness o'erspent. He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, 69 JO . NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats Of torture to his children, summoned back The ebbing blood into his pallid face. 'Twas evening, and the half-descended sun Tipped with a golden fire the many domes Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up With a stout heart that long and weary day, Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, But now he was alone, and from his nerves The needless strength departed, and he leaned Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of hirti Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye The moving picture. The abandoned limbs, Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 71 Swollen to purple fulness ; the gray hair, Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes ; And as a thought of wilder bitterness Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, And the fast workings of his bloodless face Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. The golden light into the painter's room Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole From the dark pictures radiantly forth, And in the soft and dewy atmosphere Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. The walls were hung with armor, and about In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, And from the casement soberly away Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, ' And like a veil of filmy mellowness The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus — The vulture at his vitals, and the links 72 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh ; And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth With its far reaching fancy, and with form And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip Were like the winged god's, breathing from his flight. " Bring me the captive now ! My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift From my waked spirit airily and swift, And I could paint the bow Upon the bended heavens — around me play Colors of such divinity to-day. " Ha ! bind him on his back ! Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! Now — bend him to the rack ! NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 73 Press down the poisoned links into his flesh ! And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! " So — let him writhe ! How long Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! What a fine agony works upon his brow ! Ha ! gray-haired, and so strong ! How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! "'Pity' thee! So I do! I pity the dumb victim at the altar — But does the robed priest for his pity falter ? I'd rack thee though I knew A thousand lives were perishing in thine — What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? u < Hereafter ! ' Ay — hereafter ! A whip to keep a coward to his track ! What gave Death ever from his kingdom back To check the sceptic's laughter ? 74 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Come from the grave to-morrow with that story, And I may take some softer path to glory. " No, no, old man ! we die Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! Strain well thy fainting eye — For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, The light of heaven will never reach thee more. " Yet there's a deathless name ! A spirit that the smouldering vault shall spurn, And like a steadfast planet mount and burn ; And though its crown of flame Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! — "Ay — though it bid me rifle My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 75 Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first — Though it should bid me stifle The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, And taunt its mother till my brain went wild — "All — I would do it all — Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot, Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! Oh heavens ! — but I appall Your heart, old man ! forgive — ha ! on your lives Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! " Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — Stand back ! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow ! Gods ! if he do not die But for one moment — one — till I eclipse Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! " Shivering ! Hark ! he mutters Brokenly now — that was a difficult breath — 76 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh Death ! Look ! how his temple flutters ! Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head ! He shudders — gasps — Jove help him ! — so — he's dead." How like a mounting devil in the heart Rules the unreined ambition ! Let it once But play the monarch, and its haughty brow Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought And unthrones peace forever. Putting on The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns The heart to ashes, and with not a spring Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, We look upon our splendor and forget The thirst of which we perish ! Yet hath life Many a falser idol. There are hopes Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some; And passions, many a wild one ; and fair schemes For gold and pleasure — yet will only this Balk not the soul — Ambition, only, gives, Even of bitterness, a beaker full ! NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 77 Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, Troubled at best ; Love is a lamp unseen, Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken ; Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, And Quiet is a hunger never fed; And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose — From all but keen Ambition — will the soul Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness To wander like a restless child away. Oh, if there were not better hopes than these — Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame — If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart Must canker in its coffers — if the links Falsehood hath broken will unite no more — If the deep yearning love, that hath not found Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears — If truth and fervor and devotedness, Finding no worthy altar, must return And die of their own fulness — if beyond The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air The spirit may find room, and in the love 78 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart May spend itself — what thrice-mocked fools are we ! 26 Unseen Spirits The shadows lay along Broadway, 'Twas near the twilight-tide, And slowly there a lady fair Was walking in her pride. Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, Walked spirits at her side. Peace charmed the street beneath her feet And Honor charmed the air; And all astir looked kind on her, And called her good as fair, For all God ever gave to her She kept with chary care. She kept with care her beauties rare From lovers warm and true, NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 79 For her heart was cold to all but gold, And the rich came not to woo — ■ But honored well are charms to sell If priests the selling do. Now walking there was one more fair — A slight girl, lily-pale ; And she had unseen company To make the spirit quail : 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray ; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way ! — But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway ! WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 27 The Lost Pleiad Not in the sky, Where it was seen So long in eminence of light serene, — Nor on the white tops of the glistering wave, Nor down in mansions of the hidden deep, Though beautiful in green And crystal, its great caves of mystery, — Shall the bright watcher have Her place, and, as of old, high station keep ! Gone ! gone ! Oh ! nevermore, to cheer The mariner, who holds his course alone On the Atlantic, through the weary night, When the stars turn to watchers, and do sleep. Shall it again appear, With the sweet-loving certainty of light, Down shining on the shut eyes of the deep ! 80 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 8 1 The upward-looking shepherd on the hills Of Chaldea, night-returning with his flocks, He wonders why his beauty doth not blaze, Gladding his gaze, — And, from his dreary watch along the rocks, Guiding him homeward o'er the perilous ways ! How stands he waiting still, in a sad maze, Much wondering, while the drowsy silence fills The sorrowful vault ! — how lingers, in the hope that night May yet renew the expected and sweet light, So natural to his sight ! And lone, Where, at the first, in smiling love she shone, Brood the once happy circle of bright stars : How should they dream, until her fate was known, That they were ever confiscate to death ? That dark oblivion the pure beauty mars, And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, That they should fall from high ; 82 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS Their lights grow blasted by a touch, and die, All their concerted springs of harmony Snapt rudely, and the generous music gone ! Ah ! still the strain Of wailing sweetness fills the saddening sky ; The sister stars, lamenting in their pain That one of the selectest ones must die, — Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest! Alas ! 'tis ever thus the destiny. Even Rapture's song hath evermore a tone Of wailing, as for bliss too quickly gone. The hope most precious is the soonest lost, The flower most sweet is first to feel the frost. Are not all short-lived things the loveliest ? And, like the pale star, shooting down the sky, Look they not ever brightest, as they fly From the lone sphere they blest ! CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN 28 Sparkling and Bright Sparkling and bright in liquid light, Does the wine our goblets gleam in, With hue as red as the rosy bed Which a bee would choose to dream in. Then fill to-night, with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that sivim on the beaker s brim, And break on the lips while meeting. Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, We here a while would now beguile The graybeard of his pinions, To drink to-night, with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. 83 84 CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN But since Delight can't tempt the wight, Nor fond Regret delay him, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, Nor sober Friendship stay him, We 11 drink to-niglit, with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As btibbles that swim on the beaker's brim And break on the lips while meeting. EDGAR ALLAN POE 29 For Annie Thank Heaven! the crisis — The danger — is past, And the lingering illness Is over at last — And the fever called " Living" Is conquered at last. Sadly, I know I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move As I lie at full length — But no matter ! — I feel I am better at length. And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed, That any beholder Might fancy me dead — *5 86 EDGAR ALLAN POE Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart : — ah that horrible, Horrible throbbing ! The sickness — the nausea — The pitiless pain — Have ceased with the fever That maddened my brain — With the fever called " Living ' That burned in my brain. And oh ! of all tortures That torture the worst Has abated — the terrible Torture of thirst For the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst : — • EDGAR ALLAN POE 87 I have drank of a water That quenches all thirst, — Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound, From a spring but a very few 'Feet under ground — From a cavern not very far Down under ground. And ah ! let it never Be foolishly said That my room it is gloomy And narrow my bed ; For man never slept In a different bed — And, to sleeps you must slumber In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never Regretting, its roses, — Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses : 88 EDGAR ALLAN POE For now, while so quietly Lying, it fancies A holier odor About it, of pansies — A rosemary odor, Commingled with pansies — - With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies. And so it lies happily, Bathing in many A dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie — Drowned in a bath Of the tresses of Annie. She tenderly kissed me, She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast — Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast. When the light was extinguished, She covered me warm, EDGAR ALLAN POE 89 And she prayed to the angels To keep me from harm — To the queen of the angels - To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed, (Knowing her love) That you fancy me dead — And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed, (With her love at my breast) That you fancy me dead — That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead : — But my heart it is brighter Than all of the many Stars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie — It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie — With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie. 90 EDGAR ALLAN POE 30 The Bells Hear the sledges with the bells — Silver bells ! What a world of merriment their melody fore- tells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells. From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 11 Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells ! EDGAR ALLAN POE 91 What a world of happiness their harmony fore- tells ! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight ! — From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! How it swells ! How it dwells On the Future ! — How it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! in Hear the loud alarum bells — Brazen bells ! 92 EDGAR ALLAN POE What a tale of terror, now their turbulency tells ! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright ! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now — now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells ! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair ! How they clang, and clash, and roar ! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air ! Yet the ear it fully knows, EDGAR ALLAN POE 93 By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells — Of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — In the clamor and the clanging of the bells ! IV Hear the tolling of the bells — Iron bells ! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 94 EDGAR ALLAN POE For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people — ah, the people — They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone — They are neither man nor woman — They are neither brute nor human - They are Ghouls : — And their king it is who tolls : — And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells ! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells ! And he dances, and he yells ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells : — Of the bells : EDGAR ALLAN POE 95 Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells, — Of the bells, bells, bells — To the sobbing of the bells : — Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells : — To the tolling of the bells — Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells — To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 31 The Raven Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- gotten lore — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, g6 EDGAR ALLAN POE As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door — Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December ; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; — vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — sorrow for the lost Lenore, — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating EDGAR ALLAN POE 97 a > Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; — This it is and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgive- ness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door ; — Darkness there and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 98 EDGAR ALLAN POE And the only word there spoken was the whis- pered word, " Lenore ! " This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore ! " Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. " Surely,' ' said I, " surely that is something at my window-lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mys- tery explore — Let my heart be still a mo'ment and this mys- tery explore ; — 'Tis the wind and nothing more ! " Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; EDGAR ALLAN POE 99 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- nance it wore, " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — little rele- vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 100 EDGAR ALLAN POE Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as " Nevermore." But the Raven', sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered — not a feather then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before. ,, Then the bird said " Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master whom un- merciful Disaster EDGAR ALLAN POE IOI Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy bur- den bore Of ' Never, — nevermore.' " But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door ; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core : • This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 102 EDGAR ALLAN POE On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- • light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp- light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore ! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on « the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe from thy memo- ries of Lenore ; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore ! " Quoth the Raven " Nevermore." " Prophet ! " cried I, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or devil ! — Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest # tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted — EDGAR ALLAN POE 103 On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore ! " Quoth the Raven " Nevermore." " Prophet ! " cried I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven " Nevermore." " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 104 EDGAR ALLAN POE Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the Raven " Nevermore." And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore ! RALPH WALDO EMERSON 32 The Humblebee Burly dozing humblebee ! Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek, I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid zone ! Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines ; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, Voyager of light and noon, Epicyrean of June, Wait 1 prithee, till I come 105 106 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Within ear-shot of thy hum, — All without is martyrdom. When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze, Silvers the horizon wall, And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And, infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace, With thy mellow breezy bass. Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone, Telling of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers, Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found, Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 107 Aught unsavory or unclean, Hath my insect never seen, But violets and bilberry bells, Maple sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adders-tongue, And brier-roses dwelt among ; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher ! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep, — Woe and want thou canst out-sleep, — 108 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Want and woe which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 33 The Rhodora LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook: The purple petals fallen in the pool Made the black water with their beauty gay, Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora ! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask, I never knew, RALPH WALDO EMERSON 109 But in my simple ignorance suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.. 34 'Each and All Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown, Of thee, from the hill-top looking down ; And the heifer, that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; The sexton tolling the bell at noon, Dreams not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent : All are needed by each one, Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home in his nest at even ; — He sings the song, but it pleases not now ; IIO RALPH WALDO EMERSON For I did not bring home the river and sky ; He sang to my ear ; they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the, shore ; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me ; I wiped away the weeds and foam, And fetched my sea-born treasures home ; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white quire, At last she tame to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage, — The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, " I covet Truth; RALPH WALDO EMERSON in Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat, — I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs ; I inhaled the violet's breath ; Around me stood the oaks and firs ; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground ; Above me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and deity ; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird ; — Beauty through my senses stole, I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 35 The Problem I like a church, I like a cowl, I love a prophet of the soul, And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles ; Yet not for all his faith can see, Would I that cowled churchman be. 112 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure ? Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle ; Out from the heart of nature rolled • The burdens of the Bible old ; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below, The canticles of love and woe. The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity, Himself from God he could not free ; He builded better than he knew, The conscious stone to beauty grew. Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves and feathers from her breast ; Or how the fish outbuilt its shell, Painting with morn each annual cell ; RALPH WALDO EMERSON 1 13 Or how the sacred pine tree adds To her old leaves new myriads ? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon As the best gem upon her zone; And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids ; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky As on its friends with kindred eye ; For out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air, And nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat. These temples grtw as grows the grass, Art might obey but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned, And the same power that reared the shrine, Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 114 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Even the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting quires, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; m The word by seers or sibyls told In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the Fathers wise, The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden-lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines, His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear, And yet for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be. RALPH WALDO EMERSON 115 36 Good-by Good-by, proud world, I'm going home, Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine ; Long through thy weary crowds I roam ; A river ark on the ocean brine, Long I've been tossed like the driven foam. But now, proud world, I'm going home. Good-by to Flattery's fawning face, To Grandeur, with his wise grimace, To upstart Wealth's averted eye, To supple Office low and high, To crowded halls, to court, and street, To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, To those who go, and those who come, Good-by, proud world, I'm going home. I'm going to my own hearth-stone Bosomed in yon green hills, alone, A secret nook in a pleasant land, Whose groves the frolic fairies planned ; Where arches green the livelong day Echo the blackbird's roundelay, Il6 RALPH WALDO EMERSON And vulgar feet have never trod A spot that is sacred to thought and God. Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome ; And when I am stretched beneath the pines Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet. ISAAC McLELLAN 37 New England's Dead New England's dead ! New England's dead ! On every hill they lie ; On every field of strife, made red By bloody victory. Each valley, where the battle poured Its red and awful tide, Beheld the brave New England sword With slaughter deeply dyed. Their bones are on the northern hill, And on the southern plain, By brook and river, lake and rill, And by the roaring main. The land is holy where they fought, And holy where they fell ; For by their blood that land was bought, The land they loved so well. 117 Il8 ISAAC McLELLAN Then glory to that valiant band, The honored saviors of the land ! Oh, few and weak their numbers were, — A handful of brave men ; But to their God they gave their prayer, And rushed to battle then. The God of battles heard their cry, And sent to them the victory. They left the ploughshare in the mould, Their flocks and herds without a fold, The sickle in the unshorn grain, The corn, half-garnered, on the plain, And mustered, in their simple dress, For wrongs to seek a stern redress, To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe, To perish, or o'ercome their foe. And where are ye, O fearless men ? And where are ye to-day ? I call : — the hills reply again That ye have passed away ; ISAAC McLELLAN 1 19 That on old Bunker's lonely height, In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground, The grass grows green, the harvest bright Above each soldier's mound. The bugle's wild and warlike blast Shall muster them no more ; An army now might thunder past, And they heed not its roar. The starry flag, 'neath which they fought In many a bloody day, From their old graves shall rouse them not, For they have passed away. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 38 Hymn to the Night AcnraaLr}, T/otAXtcrros TLbrvia, Trbrvia w£, virvodoTeipa rCov iroXvirdvayv (3poTQp, ''Epeftodev lSl • fxdXe fxoXe Kardirrepos 'AyafjL€[Av6vLov iirl ddfiov vwb yap aXyecov, virb re avfxcpopds §toi%6/>ce^', olxo/Jieda. Euripides. I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls ! I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, 120 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 12 1 That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, — From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before ! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace ! Peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer ! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night ! 39 The Arsenal at Springfield This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; 122 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song, . And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din, HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 123 And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asun- der, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade ; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And j arrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power, that fills the world with terror, 124 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts : The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ! And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain ! Down the dark future, through long genera- tions. The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, " Peace !" Peace ! and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies ! But beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 125 40 The Fire of Driftwood We sat within the farm-house old, Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold, An easy entrance, night and day. Not far away we saw the port, — The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, — The lighthouse, — the dismantled fort, — The wooden houses, quaint and brown. We sat and talked until the night, Descending, filled the little room ; Our faces faded from the sight Our voices only broke the gloom. We spake of many a vanished scene, Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been, And who was changed, and who was dead ; And all that fills the hearts of friends, When first they feel, with secret pain, 126 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Their lives thenceforth have separate ends, And never can be one again ; The first slight swerving of the heart, That words are powerless to express, And leave it still unsaid in part, Or say it in too great excess. The very tones in which we spake Had something strange, I could but mark ; The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark. Oft died the words upon our lips, As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships, The flames would leap and then expire. And, as their splendor flashed and failed, We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed And sent no answer back again. The windows, rattling in their frames, — The ocean, roaring up the beach, — HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 127 The gusty blast, — the bickering flames, — All mingled vaguely in our speech ; Until they made themselves a part Of fancies floating through the brain, — The long-lost ventures of the heart, That send no answers back again. O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned ! They were indeed too much akin, The driftwood fire without that burned, The thoughts that burned and glowed within. 41 Resignation There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there ! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair ! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead ; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted ! 128 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise, But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; Amid these earthly damps What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers May be heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death ! What seems so is transi- tion. This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life elysian, Whose portal we call Death. She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — But gone unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led, Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives, whom we call dead. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 129 Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air ; Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, Behold her grown more fair. Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives, Thinking that our remembrance, though un- spoken, May reach her where she lives. Not as a child shall we again behold her ; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child ; But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, Clothed with celestial grace ; And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face. And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed, 130 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest, — We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay ; By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. 42 Sea-weed When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the equinox, Landward in his wrath he scourges The toiling surges, Laden with sea-weed from the rocks : From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges Of sunken ledges, In some far-off, bright Azore ; From Bahama, and the dashing, Silver-flashing Surges of San Salvador ; HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 131 From the tumbling surf, that buries The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides ; And from wrecks of ships, and drifting Spars, uplifting On the desolate, rainy seas ; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless main ; Till in sheltered coves, and reaches Of sandy beaches, All have found repose again. So when storms of wild emotion Strike the ocean Of the poet's soul, erelong, From each cave and rocky fastness In its vastness, Floats some fragment of a song : From the far-off isles enchanted Heaven has planted With the golden fruit of Truth; 132 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW From the flashing surf, whose vision Gleams Elysian In the tropic clime of Youth ; From the strong Will, and the Endeavor That forever Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, Tempest-shattered, Floating waste and desolate ; — Ever drifting, drifting, drifting On the shifting Currents of the restless heart ; Till at length in books recorded, They, like hoarded Household words, no more depart. 43 The Day is Done The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW 133 I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist : A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor ; And to-night I long for rest. 134 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. *And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The Angel of Patience A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN To weary hearts, to mourning homes, God's meekest Angel gently comes : No power has he to banish pain, Or give us back our lost again ; And yet in tenderest love our dear And heavenly Father sends him here. There's quiet in that Angel's glance, There's rest in his still countenance ! He mocks no grief with idle cheer, Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; But ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure. Angel of Patience ! sent to calm Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; To lay the storms of hope and fear, And reconcile life's smile and tear ; i35 136 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The throbs of wounded pride to still, And make our own our Father's will ! O thou who mournest on thy way, With longings for the close of day ; He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, " Be resigned : Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell The dear Lord ordereth all things well ! " 45 The Barefoot Boy Blessings on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes ; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy ! Prince thou art, — the grown-up man Only is republican. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 137 Let the million-dollared ride ! Barefoot, trudging at his side, Thou hast more than he can buy- In the reach of ear and eye, — Outward sunshine, inward joy : Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well ; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung ; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, 138 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! — For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks ; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, — Blessings on the barefoot boy ! O for boyhood's time of June. Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees ; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade ; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 139 Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall ; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too ; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, — Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude ! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra ; I4Q JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch : pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy ! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew ; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, Up and down in ceaseless moil : Happy if their track be found Never on forbidden ground ; Happy if they sink not in Quick and treacherous sands of sin. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 141 Ah ! that thou couldst know thy joy, Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 46 Burns ON RECEIVING A SPRIG OF HEATHER IN BLOSSOM No more these simple flowers belong To Scottish maid and lover, Sown in the common soil of song, They bloom the wide world over. In smiles and tears, in sun and showers, The minstrel and the heather, The deathless singer and the flowers He sang of live together. Wild heather-bells and Robert Burns ! The moorland flower and peasant ! How, at their mention, memory turns Her pages old and pleasant ! The gray sky wears again its gold And purple of adorning, And manhood's noonday shadows hold The dews of boyhood's morning : 142 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The dews that washed the dust and soil From off the wings of pleasure, The sky, that flecked the ground of toil With golden threads of leisure. I call to mind the summer day, The early harvest mowing, The sky with sun and clouds at play, And flowers with breezes blowing. I hear the blackbird in the corn, The locust in the haying ; And, like the fabled hunter's horn, Old tunes my heart is playing. How oft that day, with fond delay, I sought the maple's shadow, And sang with Burns the hours away, Forgetful of the meadow ! Bees hummed, birds twittered, overhead I heard the squirrels leaping, The good dog listened while I read, And wagged his tail in keeping. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 143 I watched him while in sportive mood I read " The Twa Dogs' " story, And half believed he understood The poet's allegory. Sweet day, sweet songs! — The golden hours Grew brighter for that singing, From brook and bird and meadow flowers A dearer welcome bringing. New light on home-seen Nature beamed, New glory over Woman ; And daily life and duty seemed No longer poor and common. I woke to find the simple truth Of fact and feeling better Than all the dreams that held my youth A still repining debtor : That Nature gives her handmaid, Art, The themes of sweet discoursing ; The tender idyls of the heart In every tongue rehearsing. 144 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Why dream of lands of gold and pearl, Of loving knight and lady, When farmer boy and barefoot girl Were wandering there already ? I saw through all familiar things The romance underlying; The joys and griefs that plume the wings Of Fancy skyward flying. I saw the same blithe day return, The same sweet fall of even, That rose on wooded Craigie-burn, And sank on crystal Devon. I matched with Scotland's heathery hills The sweet-brier and the clover ; With Ayr and Doon, my native rills, Their wood-hymns chanting over. O'er rank and pomp, as he had seen, I saw the Man uprising ; No longer common or unclean, The child of God's baptizing ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 145 With clearer eyes I saw the worth Of life among the lowly ; The Bible at his Cotter's hearth Had made my own more holy. And if at times an evil strain, To lawless love appealing, Broke in upon the sweet refrain ' Of pure and healthful feeling, It died upon the eye and ear, No inward answer gaining ; No heart had I to see or hear The discord and the staining. Let those who never erred forget His worth, in vain bewailings ; Sweet Soul of Song ! — I own my debt Uncancelled by his failings ! Lament who will the ribald line Which tells his lapse from duty, How kissed the maddening lips of wine Or wanton ones of beauty ; 146 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER But think, while falls that shade between The erring one and Heaven, That he who loved like Magdalen, Like her may be forgiven. Not his the song whose thunderous chime Eternal echoes render, — The mournful Tuscan's haunted rhyme, And Milton's starry splendor ! But who his human heart has laid To Nature's bosom nearer ? Who sweetened toil like him, or paid To love a tribute dearer ? Through all his tuneful art, how strong The human feeling gushes ! The very moonlight of his song Is warm with smiles and blushes ! Give lettered pomp to teeth of Time, So " Bonnie Doon" but tarry ; Blot out the Epic's stately rhyme, But spare his " Highland Mary " ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 147 47 The Reformer All grim and soiled and brown with tan, I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, Smiting the godless shrines of man Along his path. The Church, beneath her trembling dome Essayed in vain her ghostly charm : Wealth shook within his gilded home With strange alarm. Fraud from his secret chambers fled Before the sunlight bursting in : Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head To drown the din. " Spare," Art implored, " yon holy pile ; That grand, old, time-worn turret spare ; M Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle, Cried out, " Forbear ! " Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind, Groped for his old accustomed stone, 148 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Leaned on his staff, and wept to find His seat o'erthrown. Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, O'erhung with paly locks of gold, — " Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, " The fair, the old?" Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke, Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; Shuddering and sick of heart I woke, As from a dream. I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled,, — The Waster seemed the Builder too ; Up springing from the ruined Old I saw the New. 'Twas but the ruin of the bad, — The wasting of the wrong and ill ; Whate'er of good the old time had Was living still. Calm grew the brows of him I feared ; The frown which awed me passed away, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 149 And left behind a smile which cheered Like breaking day. The grain grew green on battle-plains, O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow; The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough. Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay And cottage windows, flower-entwined, Looked out upon the peaceful bay And hills behind. Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red, The lights on brimming crystal fell, Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head And mossy well. Through prison-walls, like Heaven-sent hope, Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, And with the idle gallows-rope The young child played. Where the doomed victim in his cell Had counted o'er the weary hours, % 150 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, Came crowned with flowers. Grown wiser for the lesson given, I fear no longer, for I know That, where the share is deepest driven, The best fruits grow. The outworn rite, the old abuse, The pious fraud transparent grown, The good held captive in the use Of wrong alone, — These wait their doom, from that great law Which makes the past time serve to-day ; And fresher life the world shall draw From their decay. O, backward-looking son of time! The new is old, the old is new, The cycle of a change sublime Still sweeping through. So wisely taught the Indian seer ; Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 151 Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, Are one, the same. As idly as, in that old day, Thou mournest, did thy sires repine, So, in his time, thy child grown gray Shall sigh for thine. Yet, not the less for them or thou The eternal step of Progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow, Which God repeats ! Take heart ! — the Waster builds again, — A charmed life old Goodness hath ; The tares may perish, — but the grain Is not for death. God works in all things ; all obey His first propulsion from the night : Ho, wake and watch ! — the world is gray With morning light ! 152 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 48 The Eve of Election From gold to gray Our mild sweet day Of Indian summer fades too soon ; But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon. In its pale fire, The f village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance ; The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance ! O'er fallen leaves The west-wind grieves, Yet comes a seed-time round again ; And morn shall see The State sown free With baleful tares or healthful grain. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 153 Along the street The shadows meet Of Destiny, whose hands conceal The moulds of fate That shape the State, And make or mar the common weal. Arouiid I see The powers that be ; I stand by Empire's primal springs ; And princes meet In every street, And hear the tread of uncrowned kings ! Hark ! through the crowd The laugh runs loud, Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. God save the land, A careless hand May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon ! No jest is this ; One cast amiss May blast the hope of Freedom's year. 154 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER O, take me where Are hearts of prayer, And foreheads bowed in reverent fear ! Not lightly fall Beyond recall The written scrolls a breath can float ; The crowning fact, The kingliest act Of Freedom is the freeman's vote ! For pearls that gem A diadem The diver in the deep sea dies ; The regal right We boast to-night Is ours through costlier sacrifice ; The blood of Vane, His prison pain Who traced the path the pilgrim trod, And hers whose faith Drew strength from death, And prayed her Russell up to God ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 155 Our hearts grow cold, We lightly hold A right which brave men died to gain ; The stake, the cord, The axe, the sword, Grim nurses at its birth of pain. The shadow rend, And o'er us bend, O martyrs, with your crowns and palms, — Breathe through these throngs Your battle songs, Your scaffold prayers and dungeon psalms ! Look from the sky, Like God's great eye, Thou solemn moon, with searching beam ; Till in the sight Of thy pure light Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. Shame from our hearts Unworthy arts, The fraud designed, the purpose dark ; 156 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER And smite away The hands we lay Profanely on the sacred ark. To party claims And private aims, Reveal that august face of Truth, Whereto are given The age of heaven, The beauty of immortal youth. So shall our voice Of sovereign choice Swell the deep bass of duty done, And strike the key Of time to be, When God and man shall speak as one ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 49 The Chambered Nautilus This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! *57 158 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low-vaulted past ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 159 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! 50 Old Ironsides 1 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky ; Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar ; — The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, 1 Verses, the popularity of which averted the proposed breaking up of the old frigate Constitution, then lying at the Navy Yard in Charlestown, Mass. l60 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee ; — The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea ! Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave ; Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave ; Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning and the gale ! 51 The Deacon's Masterpiece: OR, THE WONDERFUL ONE-HOSS SHAY A Logical Story Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened without delay, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES l6l Scaring the parson into fits, . Frightening people out of their wits, — Have you ever heard of that, I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgins Secundus was then alive, — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot, — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will, — Above or below, or within or without, — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out. 162 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an " I dew vum," or an " I tell yeou") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' : It should be so. built that it coicldn break daown ; — " Fur," said the Deacon, " 't's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills ; He sent for lancewood to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs of logs from the " Settler's ellum," — Last of its timber, — they couldn't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 163 And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he " put her through/' " There ! " said the Deacon, " naow she'll dew ! " Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren, — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen hundred ; — it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten ; — "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. 1 64 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Eighteen hundred and twenty came ; — Running as usual ; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then came fifty, and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large ; Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) First of November, — the Earthquake-day. ■*— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local as one may say. There couldn't be, — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whippletree neither less nor more, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 165 And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub e7icore y And yet, as a zvhole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be zvorn out ! First of November, 'Fifty-five ! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. " Huddup ! " said the parson. — Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text, — Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. — First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill, — And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, — Just the hour of the Earthquake shock ! — What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ? 166 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground ! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once, — All at once, and nothing first, — Just as bubbles do when they burst. End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say. 52 The Voiceless We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, — But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild flowers who will stoop to number ? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them ; — Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them ! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts* sad story, — OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 167 Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory ! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses — If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! ALFRED BILLINGS STREET 53 The Settler His echoing axe the settler swung Amid the sea-like solitude, And, rushing, thundering, down were flung The Titans of the wood ; Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed From out his mossy nest, which crashed With its supporting bough, And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed On the wolf's haunt below. Rude was the garb and strong the frame Of him who plied his ceaseless toil : To form that garb the wildwood game Contributed their spoil ; The soul that warmed that frame disdained The tinsel, gaud, and glare that reigned Where men their crowds collect ; 1 68 ALFRED BILLINGS STREET 169 The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained, This forest-tamer decked. The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees, The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers, The winds that swelled their harmonies Through those sun-hiding bowers, The temple vast, the green arcade, The nestling vale, the grassy glade, Dark cave, and swampy lair ; These scenes and sounds majestic made His world, his pleasures, there. . His roof adorned a pleasant spot ; Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not Throve in the sun and rain. The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell, The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,' All made a landscape strange, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change. 170 ALFRED BILLINGS STREET The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, The rose of summer spread its glow, The maize hung out its autumn fringe, Rude winter brought his snow ; And still the lone one labored there, His shout and whistle broke the air, As cheerily he plied His garden-spade, or drove his share Along the hillock's side. He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood Roaring and crackling on its path, And scorching earth, and melting wood, Beneath its greedy wrath ; He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, Trampling the pine-tree with its foot, And darkening thick the day With streaming bough and severed root, Hurled whizzing on its way. His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, The grim bear hushed his savage growl In blood and foam the panther gnashed His fangs, with dying howl ; ALFRED BILLINGS STREET 171 The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, And, with its moaning cry, The beaver sank beneath the wound Its pond-built Venice by. Humble the lot, yet his the race, When Liberty sent forth her cry, Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place, To fight, — to bleed, — to die ! Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, By hope through weary years were led, And witnessed Yorktown's sun Blaze on a nation's banner spread, A nation's freedom won. FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 54 Labor Pause not to dream of the future before us; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; Never the little seed stops in its growing ; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. " Labor is worship ! " — the robin is singing ; " Labor is worship ! " — the wild bee is ringing ; Listen ! that eloquent whisper, upspringing, Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 172 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 173 From the rpugh sod blows the soft-breathing flower ; From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; Only man in the plan shrinks from his part. Labor is life ! — 'tis the still water f aileth ; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts # only the dark future frightens ; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them ♦ in tune ! Labor is rest, — from the sorrows that greet us ; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; , Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us ; Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work, — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; 174 FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD Work, — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow : Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping- willow ! Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman reap- ing, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping ! How his strong arm in his stalwart pride sweep- ing, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, — though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee ! Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ! FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD 175 Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee ! Rest not content in thy darkness, — a clod ! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ! Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ! Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy ; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN 55 To an Elm Bravely thy old arms fling Their countless pennons to the fields of air, And, like a sylvan king,. Their panoply of green still proudly wear. As some rude tower of old, Their massive trunk still rears its rugged form, With limbs of giant mould, To battle sternly with the winter storm. In Nature's mighty fane, Thou art the noblest arch beneath the sky ; How long the pilgrim train That with a benison have passed thee by ! Lone patriarch of the wood ! Like a true spirit thou dost freely rise, Of fresh and dauntless mood, Spreading thy branches to the open skies. 176 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN 1 77 The locust knows thee well, And when the summer days his notes prolong, Hid in some leafy cell, Pours from thy world of green his drowsy song. Oft, on a morn in spring, The yellow-bird will seek thy waving spray, And there securely swing, To whet his beak, and pour his blithesome lay. How bursts thy monarch wail, When sleeps the pulse of Nature's buoyant life, And, bared to meet the gale, Wave thy old branches, eager for the strife ! The sunset often weaves Upon thy crest a wreath of splendor rare, While the fresh-murmuring leaves Fill with cool sound the evening's sultry air. Sacred thy roof of green To rustic dance, and childhood's gambols free ; Gay youth and age serene Turn with familiar gladness unto thee. 178 HENRY THEODORE TUCKERMAN Oh, hither should we roam, To hear Truth's herald in the lofty shade ; Beneath thy emerald dome Might Freedom's champion fitly draw his blade. With blessings at thy feet, Falls the worn peasant to his noontide rest ; Thy verdant, calm retreat Inspires the sad and soothes the troubled breast When, at the twilight hour, Plays through thy tressil crown the sun's last gleam, Under thy ancient bower The schoolboy comes to sport, the bard to dream. And when the moonbeams fall Through thy broad canopy upon the grass, Making a fairy hall, As o'er the sward the flitting shadows pass — Then lovers haste to thee, With hearts that tremble like that shifting light ; To them, O brave old tree, Thou art Joy's shrine — a temple of delight ! CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 56 The Bobolinks When Nature had made all her birds, With no more cares to think on, She gave a rippling laugh, and out There flew a Bobolinkon. She laughed again ; out flew a mate ; A breeze of Eden bore them Across the fields of Paradise, The sunrise reddening o'er them. Incarnate sport and holiday, They flew and sang forever ; Their souls through June were all in tune, Their wings were weary never. Their tribe, still drunk with air and light, And perfume of the meadow, Go reeling up and down the sky, In sunshine and in shadow. 179 180 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH One springs from out the dew-wet grass ; Another follows after ; The morn is thrilling with their songs And peals of fairy laughter. From out the marshes and the brook, They set the tall reeds swinging, And meet and frolic in the air, Half prattling and half singing. When morning winds sweep meadow-lands In green and russet billows, And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs, And silver all the willows, I see you buffeting the breeze, Or with its motion swaying, Your notes half drowned against the wind, Or down the current playing. When far away o'er grassy flats, Where the thick wood commences, The white-sleeved mowers look like specks Beyond the zigzag fences, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 181 And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam White in the pale blue distance, I hear the saucy minstrels still In chattering persistence. When Eve her domes of opal fire Piles round the blue horizon, Or thunder rolls from hill to hill A Kyrie Eleison, Still merriest of the merry birds, Your sparkle is unfading, — Pied harlequins of June, — no end Of song and masquerading, What cadences of bubbling mirth, Too quick for bar and rhythm ! What ecstasies, too full to keep Coherent measure with them ! O could I share, without champagne Or muscadel, your frolic, The glad delirium of your joy, Your fun unapostolic, 182 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH Your drunken jargon through the fields, Your bobolinkish gabble, Your fine Anacreontic glee, Your tipsy reveller's babble ! Nay, let me not profane such joy With similes of folly ; No wine of earth could waken songs So delicately jolly ! O boundless self-contentment, voiced In flying air-born bubbles ! O joy that mocks our sad unrest, And drowns our earth-born troubles ! Hope springs with you : I dread no more Despondency and dulness ; For Good Supreme can never fail That gives such perfect fulness. The life that floods the happy fields With song and light and color Will shape our lives to richer states, And heap our measures fuller. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 57 Only a Year One year ago, — a ringing voice, A clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Too fair to die. Only a year, — no voice, no smile, No glance of eye, No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die ! One year ago, — what loves, what schemes Far into life ! What joyous hopes, what high resolves, What generous strife ! The silent picture on the wall, The burial-stone Of all that beauty, life, and joy, Remain alone ! 183 1 84 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE One year, — one year, — one little year, And so much gone ! And yet the even flow of life Moves calmly on. The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above that head ; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray Says he is dead. No pause or hush of merry birds That sing above Tells us how coldly sleeps below The form we love. Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? What hast thou seen, — What visions fair, what glorious life, Where thou hast been ? The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 'Twixt us and thee ; The mystic veil ! when shall it fall, That we may see ? HARRIET BEECHER STOWE 185 Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, But present still, And waiting for the coming hour Of God's sweet will. Lord of the living and the dead, Our Saviour dear ! We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year. PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 58 Life in the Autumn Woods [VIRGINIA] Summer has gone, And fruitful Autumn has advanced so far That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun, And you may look, with naked eye, upon The ardors of his car ; The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks em- bolden, Are making the green leaves golden. What a brave splendor Is in the October air ! how rich, and clear, And bracing, and all-joyous! We must render Love to the Spring-time, with its sproutings tender, As to a child quite dear ; 186 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 187 But Autumn is a thing of perfect glory, A manhood not yet hoary. I love the woods, In this good season of the liberal year ; I love to seek their leafy solitudes, And give myself to melancholy moods, With no intruder near, And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder, In every natural wonder. But not alone, As Shakespeare's melancholy courtier loved Ardennes, Love I the browning forest ; and I own I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown To hunt with Amiens — And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded, Of the sad creature wounded. A brave and good, But world-worn knight — soul-wearied with his part In this vexed life — gave man for solitude, 1 88 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood, To hear the belling hart. It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness Yields to the hunter's madness. What passionate And keen delight is in the proud swift chase ! Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate Soars joyously singing — quite infuriate With the high pride of his place ; What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning In its first bright adorning. Hark! the quick horn — As sweet to hear as any clarion — Piercing with silver call the ear of morn ; And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Top- thorne, And Greysteil and the Don — Each one of them his fiery mood displaying With pawing and with neighing. Urge your swift horse After the crying hounds in this fresh hour ; PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE 189 Vanquish high hills, stem perilous streams per- force, On the free plain give free wings to your course, And you will know the power Of the brave chase, — and how of griefs the sorest A cure is in the forest. Or stalk the deer ; The same red lip of dawn has kissed the hills, The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear, There is a life in all the atmosphere : — Your very nature fills With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring You climb with limbs untiring. It is a fair And goodly sight to see the antlered stag With the long sweep of his swift walk repair To join his brothers ; or the plethoric bear Lying in some high crag, 190 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking, As gadflies keep him waking. And these you see, And, seeing them, you travel to their death With a slow, stealthy step, from tree to tree, Noting the wind, however faint it be» The hunter draws a breath In times like these, which, he will say, repays him For all care that waylays him. A strong joy fills (A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power) My heart in Autumn weather — fills and thrills ! And I would rather stalk the breezy hills Descending to my bower Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended, Than pine where life is splendid. EMILY CHUBBUCK JUDSON 59 Watching Sleep, love, sleep ! The dusty day is done. Lo ! from afar the freshening breezes sweep Wide over groves of balm, Down from the towering palm, In at the open casement cooling run, And round thy lowly bed, Thy bed of pain, Bathing thy patient head, Like grateful showers of rain, They come ; While the white curtains, waving to and fro, Fan the sick air ; And pityingly the shadows come and go, With gentle human care, Compassionate and dumb. 191 192 EMILY CHUBBUCK JUDSON The dusty day is done, The night begun ; While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep ! Is there no magic in the touch Of fingers thou dost love so much ? Fain would they scatter poppies o'er thee now ; Or, with its mute caress, The tremulous lip some soft nepenthe press Upon thy weary lid and aching brow ; While prayerful watch I keep, Sleep, love, sleep ! On the pagoda spire The bells are swinging, Their little golden circlet in a flutter With tales the wooing winds have dared to utter, Till all are ringing, As if a choir Of golden-nested birds in heaven were singing, And with a lulling sound The music floats around, EMILY CHUBBUCK JUDSON 193 And drops like balm into the drowsy ear ; Commingling with the hum Of the Sepoy's distant drum, And lazy beetle ever droning near. Sounds these of deepest silence born, Like night made visible by morn ; So silent that I sometimes start To hear the throbbings of my heart, And watch, with shivering sense of pain, To see thy pale lids lift again. The lizard, with his mouse-like eyes, Peeps from the mortise in surprise At such strange quiet after day's harsh din ; Then boldly ventures out, And looks about, And with his hollow feet Treads his small evening beat, Darting upon his prey In such a tricky, winsome sort of way, His delicate marauding seems no sin. And still the curtains swing, But noiselessly ; 194 EMILY CHUBBUCK JUDSON The bells a melancholy murmur ring, As tears were in the sky : More heavily the shadows fall, Like the black foldings of a pall, Where juts the rough beam from the wall; The candles flare With fresher gusts of air ; The beetle's drone Turns to a dirge-like, solitary moan ; Night deepens, and I sit, in cheerless doubt alone. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND 60 Cradle Song FROM "BITTER SWEET" What is the little one thinking about ? Very wonderful things, no doubt ; Unwritten history ! Unfathomed mystery ! Yet he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, And chuckles, and crows, and nods, and winks, As if his head were as full of kinks And curious riddles as any sphinx ! Warped by colic, and wet by tears, Punctured by pins, and tortured by fears, Our little nephew will lose two years ; And he'll never know Where the summers go ; — He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. Who can tell what a baby thinks ? Who can follow the gossamer links By which the manikin feels his way 195 196 JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND Out from the shore of the great unknown, Blind, and wailing, and alone, Into the light of day ? — Out from the shore of the unknown sea, Tossing in pitiful agony, — Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, Specked with the barks of little souls — Barks that were launched on the other side, And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! What does he think of his mother's eyes ? What does he think of his mother's hair ? What of the cradle-roof, that flies Forward and backward through the air ? What does he think of his mother's breast — Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, Seeking it ever with fresh delight — Cup of his life, and couch of his rest ? What does he think when her quick embrace Presses his hand and buries his face Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell, With a tenderness she can never tell, Though she murmur the words Of all the birds — JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND 197 Words she has learned to murmur well ? Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! I can see the shadow creep Over his eyes in soft eclipse, Over his brow and over his lips. Out to his little finger-tips ! Softly sinking, down he goes ! Down he goes ! down he goes ! See ! he's hushed in sweet repose, HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL 6 1 Why thus Longing? Why thus longing, thus forever sighing, For the far-off, unattained and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying, Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? Would 'st thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still ; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill, Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw — If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe ; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten — No fond voices answer to thine own ; If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten, By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 198 HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL 199 Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, Not by works that win thee world-renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown ! Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, And truly loving, thou canst truly live. Dost thou revel in the rosy morning, When all nature hails the lord of light, And his smile, the mountain tops adorning, Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright ? Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; But with fervent love if thou adorest, Thou art wealthier — all the world is thine. Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, Sighing that they are not thine alone, Not those fair fields, but thyself, thou lovest, And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 200 HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL Nature wears the color of the spirit ; Sweetly to her worshipper she sings ; All the glow, the grace she doth inherit, Round her trusting child she fondly flings, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 62 To the Dandelion Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, — thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease ; 'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now 201 202 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my tropics and mine Italy ; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time : Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, — Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, — Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, — of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 203 Some woodland gap, — and of a sky above, v Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. 204 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 63 Rhcecus God sends his teachers unto every age, To every clime, and every race of men, With revelations fitted to their growth And shape of mind, nor gives the realm of Truth Into the selfish rule of one sole race : Therefore each form of worship that hath swayed The life of man, and given it to grasp The master-key of knowledge, reverence, Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right ; Else never had the eager soul, which loathes The slothful down of pampered ignorance, Found in it even a moment's fitful rest. There is an instinct in the human heart Which makes that all the fables it hath coined, To justify the reign of its belief And strengthen it by beauty's right divine, Veil in their inner cells a mystic gift, Which, like the hazel twig, in faithful hands, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 205 Points surely to the hidden springs of truth. For, as in nature naught is made in vain, But all things have within their hull of use A wisdom and a meaning which may speak Of spiritual secrets to the ear Of spirit ; so, in whatsoe'er the heart Hath fashioned for solace to itself, To make its inspirations suit its creed, And from the niggard hands of falsehood wring Its needful food of truth, there ever is A sympathy with Nature, which reveals, Not less than her own works, pure gleams of light And earnest parables of inward lore. Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece, As full of freedom, youth, and beauty still As the immortal freshness of that grace Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze. A youth named Rhoecus, wandering in the wood, Saw an old oak just trembling to its fall, And, feeling pity of so fair a tree, He propped its gray trunk with admiring care, 206 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL And with a thoughtless footstep loitered on. But, as he turned, he heard a voice behind That murmured " Rhoecus ! " 'Twas as if the leaves, Stirred by a passing breath, had murmured it, And, while he paused bewildered, yet again It murmured " Rhoecus ! " softer than a breeze. He started and beheld with dizzy eyes What seemed the substance of a happy dream Stand there before him, spreading a warm glow Within the green glooms of the shadowy oak. It seemed a woman's shape, yet all too fair To be a woman, and with eyes too meek For any that were wont to mate with gods. All naked like a goddess stood she there, And like a goddess all too beautiful To feel the guilt-born earthliness of shame. " Rhoecus, I am the Dryad of this tree," Thus she began, dropping her low-toned words Serene, and full, and clear, as drops of dew, "And with it I am doomed to live and die; The rain and sunshine are my caterers, Nor have I other bliss than simple life ; JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 207 Now ask me what thou wilt, that I can give, And with a thankful joy it shall be thine." Then Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart, Yet, by the prompting of such beauty, bold, Answered : " What is there that can satisfy The endless craving of the soul but love ? Give me thy love, or but the hope of that Which must be evermore my spirit's goal." After a little pause she said again, But with a glimpse of sadness in her tone, " I give it, Rhoecus, though a perilous gift ; An hour before the sunset meet me here." And straightway there was nothing he could see But the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak, And not a sound came to his straining ears But the low trickling rustle of the leaves, And far away upon an emerald slope The falter of an idle shepherd's pipe. Now, in those days of simpleness and faith, Men did not think that happy things were dreams Because they overstepped the narrow bourne 208 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Of likelihood, but reverently deemed Nothing too wondrous or too beautiful To be the guerdon of a daring heart. So Rhoecus made no doubt that he was blest, And all along unto the city's gate Earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked, The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, And he could scarce believe he had not wings Such sunshine seemed to glitter through his veins Instead of blood, so light he felt and strange. Young Rhoecus had a faithful heart enough, But one that in the present dwelt too much, And, taking with blithe welcome whatsoe'er Chance gave of joy, was wholly bound in that, Like the contented peasant of a vale, Deemed it the world, and never looked beyond. So, haply meeting in the afternoon Some comrades who were playing at the dice, He joined them and forgot all else beside. The dice were rattling at the merriest, And Rhoecus, who had met but sorry luck, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 209 Just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, When through the room there hummed a yellow bee That buzzed about his ear with down-dropped legs As if to light. And Rhoecus laughed and said, Feeling how red and flushed he was with loss, " By Venus ! does he take me for a rose ? " And brushed him off with rough, impatient hand. But still the bee came back, and thrice again Rhoecus did beat him off with growing wrath. Then through the window flew the wounded bee, And Rhoecus, tracking him with angry eyes, Saw a sharp mountain-peak of Thessaly Against the red disk of the setting sun, — And instantly the blood sank from his heart, As if its very walls had caved away. Without a word he turned, and, rushing forth, Ran madly through the city and the gate, And o'er the plain, which now the wood's long shade, 210 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL By the low sun thrown forward broad and dim, Darkened well-nigh unto the city's wall. Quite spent and out of breath he reached the tree, And, listening fearfully, he heard once more The low voice murmur " Rhoecus ! " close at hand : Whereat he looked around him, but could see Naught but the deepening glooms beneath the oak. Then sighed the voice, " Oh, Rhoecus ! never- more Shalt thou behold me or by day or night, Me, w.ho would fain have blessed thee with a love More ripe and bounteous than ever yet Filled up with nectar any mortal heart : But thou didst scorn my humble messenger, And sent'st him back to me with bruised wings. We spirits only show to gentle eyes. We ever ask an undivided love, And he who scorns tfie least of Nature's works JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 211 Is thenceforth exiled and shut out from all. Farewell! for thou canst never see me more." Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud And cried, " Be pitiful ! forgive me yet This once, and I shall never need it more ! " " Alas ! " the voice returned, " 'tis thou art blind, Not I unmerciful ; I can forgive, But have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes ; Only the soul hath power o'er itself." With that again there murmured " Nevermore ! " And Rhoecus after heard no other sound, Except the rattling of the oak's crisp leaves, Like the long surf upon a distant shore, Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. The night had gathered round him: o'er the plain The city sparkled with its thousand lights, And sounds of revel fell upon his ear Harshly and like a curse ; above, the sky, With all its bright sublimity of stars, 212 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze; Beauty was all around him and delight, But from that eve he was alone on earth. 64 The Present Crisis When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast Runs a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to west, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him climb To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of Time. Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instantaneous throe, When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to and fro ; At the birth of each new Era, with a recogniz- ing start, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 213 Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips apart, And glad Truth's yet mightier man-child leaps beneath the Future's heart. So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a chill, Under continent to continent, the sense of coming ill, And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies with God In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by the sod, Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the nobler clod. For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears along, Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flush of right or wrong ; Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Human- ity's vast frame 214 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of joy or shame; — In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal claim. Once to every man and nation comes the mo- ment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side ; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light. Hast thou chosen, O my people, on whose party thou shalt stand, Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust against our land ? Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone is strong, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 21 5 And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her throng Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all wrong. Backward look across the ages and the beacon- moments see, That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through Oblivion's sea ; Not an ear in court or market for the low fore- boding cry Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose feet earth's chaff must fly ; Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment hath passed by. Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word ; Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne, — 2l6 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Yet that scaffold sways the Future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own. We see dimly in the Present what is small and what is great, Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm of fate, But the soul is still oracular ; amid the market's din, List the ominous stern whisper from the Del- phic cave within, — "They enslave their children's children who make compromise with sin." Slavery, the earthborn Cyclops, fellest of the giant brood, Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched the earth with blood, Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 217 Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his misera- ble prey ; — Shall we guide his gory fingers where our help- less children play ? Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just ; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied. Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were souls that stood alone, While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline 218 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design. By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleed- ing feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned. For Humanity sweeps onward : where to day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands ; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 219 While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn. Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves, Worshippers of light ancestral make the pres- ent light a crime ; — Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time ? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth rock sublime ? They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's; But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free, 220 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea. They have rights who dare maintain them ; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new- lit altar-fires ; Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the proph- ets of to-day ? New occasions teach new duties ; Time makes ancient good uncouth ; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires ! we our- selves must Pilgrims be, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 221 Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key. December, 1845. 65 She Came and Went As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — I only know she came and went. As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven ; — I only know she came and went. As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps ; — I only know she came and went. An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent ; 222 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL The tent is struck, the vision stays ; — I only know she came and went. O, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went. WALT WHITMAN 66 What is the Grass ? FROM "WALT WHITMAN" A child said, What is the grass ? fetching it to me with full hands ; How could I answer the child ? I do not know what it is, any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer, designedly dropped, Bearing the owner's name someway in the cor- ners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose ? Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. 223 224 WALT WHITMAN Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. Tenderly will I use you, curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, and from women, and from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. WALT WHITMAN 225 I perceive after all so many uttering tongues ! And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. 1 wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men ? And what do you think has become of the women and children ? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was, it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceased the moment life appeared. All goes onward and outward — nothing col- lapses, And to die is different from what any one sup- posed, and luckier. 226 WALT WHITMAN Has any one supposed it lucky to be born ? I hasten to inform him or her, it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. I pass death with the dying, and birth with the new-washed babe, and am not contained between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike, and every one good, The earth good, and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good. I am not an earth, nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself ; They do not know how immortal, but I know. In all people I see myself — none more, and not one a barleycorn le&s, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. WALT WHITMAN 227 And I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time. I open my scuttle at night and see the far- sprinkled systems, And all I see, multiplied as high as I can cipher, edge but the rim of the farther systems. 228 WALT WHITMAN Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding, Outward, outward, and forever outward. My sun has his sun, and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them. There is no stoppage, and never can be stoppage, If I, you, the worlds, all beneath or upon their surfaces, and all the palpable life, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run, We should surely bring up again where we now stand, And as surely go as much farther — and then farther and farther. A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span, or make it impatient, They are but parts — anything is but a part. WALT WHITMAN 229 See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that. My rendezvous is appointed, The Lord will be there, and wait till I come on perfect terms. I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured, and never will be measured. 67 O Captain ! my Captain ! 1 O Captain ! my Captain ! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring ; 1 On the death of Abraham Lincoln. 230 WALT WHITMAN But O heart ! heart ! heart ! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths — for you the shores acrowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning ; Here Captain ! dear father ! This arm beneath your head ! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, WALT WHITMAN 23 1 From fearful trip the victor ship conies in with object won ; Exult O shores, and ring O bells ! But I, with* mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. 68 Give me the Splendid Silent Snn Give me the splendid silent sun with all his beams full-dazzling, Give me juicy autumnal fruit ripe and red from the orchard, Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows, Give me an arbor, give me the trellised grape, Give me fresh corn and wheat, give me serene- moving animals teaching content, Give me nights perfectly quiet as on high plateaus west of the Mississippi, and I look- ing up at the stars, Give me odorous at sunrise a garden of beauti- ful flowers where I can walk undisturbed, 232 WALT WHITMAN Give me for marriage a sweet-breathed woman of whom I should never tire, Give me a perfect child, give me, away aside from the noise of the world, a rural domes- tic life, Give me to warble spontaneous songs recluse by myself, for my own ears only, Give me solitude, give me Nature, give me again O Nature your primal sanities ! These demanding to have them, (tired with ceaseless excitement, and racked by the war-strife) These to procure incessantly asking, rising in cries from my heart, While yet incessantly asking still I adhere to my city, Day upon day and year upon year, O city, walking your streets, Where you hold me enchained a certain time refusing to give me up, Yet giving to make me glutted, enriched of soul, you give me forever faces ; WALT WHITMAN 233 (O I see what I sought to escape, confronting, reversing my cries, I see my own soul trampling down what it asked for.) Keep your splendid silent sun, Keep your woods, O Nature, and the quiet places by the woods, Keep your fields of clover and timothy, and your corn-fields and orchards, Keep the blossoming .buckwheat fields where the Ninth-month bees hum ; Give me faces and streets — give me these phantoms incessant and endless along the trottoirs ! Give me interminable eyes — give me women — give me comrades and lovers by the thousand ! Let me see new ones every day — let me hold new ones by the hand every day ! Give me such shows — give me the streets of Manhattan ! 234 WALT WHITMAN Give me Broadway, with the soldiers marching — give me the sound of the trumpets and drums ! (The soldiers in companies or regiments — some starting away flushed and reckless, Some, their time up, returning with thinned ranks, young, yet very old, worn, marching noticing nothing;) Give me the shores and wharves heavy-fringed with black ships ! O such for me ! O an intense life, full to repletion and varied ! The life of the theatre, bar-room, huge hotel for me ! The saloon of the steamer ! The crowded excursion for me! The torchlight proces- sion ! The dense brigade bound for the war, with high- piled military wagons following ; People, endless, streaming, with strong voices, passions, pageants, Manhattan streets with their powerful throbs, with beating drums as now, WALT WHITMAN 235 The endless and noisy chorus, the rustle and clank of muskets (even the sight of the wounded), Manhattan crowds, with their turbulent musical chorus ! Manhattan faces and eyes forever for me. WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 69 The Violet O faint, delicious, spring-time violet ! Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free. The breath of distant fields upon my brow Blows through that open door The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low, And sadder than of yore. It comes afar, from that beloved place, And that beloved hour, When life hung ripening in love's golden grace, Like grapes above a bower. A spring goes singing through its reedy grass ; The lark sings o'er my head, 236 WILLIAM WETMORE STORY 237 Drowned in the sky — O, pass, ye visions, pass ! I would that I were dead ! — Why hast thou opened that forbidden door From which I ever flee ? O vanished joy ! O love, that art no more, Let my vexed spirit be ! O violet ! thy odor through my brain Hath searched, and stung to grief This sunny day, as if a curse did stain Thy velvet leaf. AMELIA B. COPPUCK WELBY 70 The Old Maid Why sits she thus in solitude ? Her heart Seems melting in her eyes' delicious blue ; And as it heaves, her ripe lips lie apart, As if to let its heavy throbbings through ; In her dark eye a depth of softness swells, Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore ; And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells The rich, fair fruit is ripened to the core. It is her thirtieth birthday ! With a sigh Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriant bowers, And her heart taken up the last sweet tie That measured out its links of golden hours ! She feels her inmost soul within her stir With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak ; 238 AMELIA B. COPPUCK WELBY 239 Yet her full heart — its own interpreter — Translates itself in silence on her cheek. Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers, Once lightly sprang within her beaming track ; O, life was beautiful in those lost hours, And yet she does not wish to wander back ! No ! she but loves in loneliness to think On pleasures past, though nevermore to be ; Hope links her to the future, — but the link That binds her to the past is memory. ALICE CARY 71 Pictures of Memory Among the beautiful pictures That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest, That seemeth best of all ; Not for its gnarled oaks olden, Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden That sprinkle the vale below ; Not for the milk-white lilies That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland, Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip. It seemeth to me the best. I once had a little brother, With eyes that were dark and deep ; 240 ALICE CARY 24 1 In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle, Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers, The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary, And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset Lodged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty, Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all. PHOEBE CARY 72 Nearer Home One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o'er and o'er, — I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before ; — Nearer my Father's house Where the many mansions be ; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the jasper sea; — Nearer the bound of life Where we lay our burdens down ; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown. But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the dim and unknown stream That leads at last to the light. 242 PHGEBE CARY 243 Closer and closer my steps Come to the dark abysm ; Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrysm. Father, perfect my trust ; Strengthen the might of my faith ; Let me feel as I would when I stand On the rock of the shore of Death, — Feel as I would when my feet Are slipping o'er the brink ; For it may be I'm nearer home, — Nearer now than I think. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 73 Drifting My soul to-day Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay ; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow. Far, vague, and dim The mountains swim ; While, on Vesuvius' misty brim, 244 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 245 With outstretched hands, The gray smoke stands O'erlooking the volcanic lands. Here Ischia smiles O'er liquid miles ; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates. I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff ; — With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise. Under the walls Where swells and falls The Bay's deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky. 246 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ The day, so mild, Is Heaven's own child, With Earth and Ocean reconciled ; — The airs I fee! Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail ; A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence. With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where Summer sings and never dies, — O'erveiled with vines, She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines. Her children, hid The cliffs amid, Are gambolling with the gambolling kid ; THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 247 Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. The fisher's child, With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships. Yon deep bark goes Where Traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows ; — This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip ! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew 248 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ No more, no more The worldly shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar ! With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise ! In lofty lines, Mid palms and pines, And olives, aloes, elms, and vines, Sorrento swings On sunset wings, Where Tasso's spirit soars and sings. 74 Sheridan's Ride Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 249 And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar ; •And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, With Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway, leading down ; And there, through the flash of the morning light A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed ; Hills rose and fell, — but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 250 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ Were beating, like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spurning feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape sped away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind ; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eyes full of fire ; But, lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; What was done, — what to do, — a glance told him both, And, striking his spurs with a terrible oath, He dashed down the line mid a storm of huzzas, THOMAS BUCHANAN READ 25 1 And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; By the flash of his eye, and his nostrils' play, He seemed to the whole great army to say, " I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day ! " Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky, — The American soldier's Temple of Fame, — There with the glorious General's name Be it said in letters both bold and bright : " Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester, — twenty miles away ! " GEORGE HENRY BOKER 75 The Black Regiment [May 27, 1863.] Dark as the clouds of even, Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land, — So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee, Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment. Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine ; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, 252 GEORGE HENRY BOKER 253 Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. " Now," the flag-sergeant cried, "Though death and hell betide, Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land ; or bound Down, like the whining hound, — Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again ! " O, what a shout there went From the black regiment ! " Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke ; Onward the bondmen broke ; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush. Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, 254 GEORGE HENRY BOKER In the guns' mouths they laugh ; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course ; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, — All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. " Freedom ! " their battle-cry, — " Freedom ! or leave to die ! " Ah ! and they meant the word, Not as with us 'tis heard, Not a mere party shout ; They gave their spirits out, Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe ; Glad to breathe one free breath, Though on the lips of death ; GEORGE HENRY BOKER 255 Praying, — alas ! in vain ! — That they might fall again, So they could once more see That burst to liberty ! This was what " freedom " lent To the black regiment. Hundreds on hundreds fell ; But they are resting well ; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. O, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true ! Hail them as comrades tried ; Fight with them side^by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment ! BAYARD TAYLOR 76 Bedouin Love- Song From the Desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire ; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry : I love thee, I love but thee ! With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain ! I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. 256 BAYARD TAYLOR 257 Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! My steps, are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! 258 BAYARD TAYLOR J7 The Arab to the Palm Next to thee, O fair gazelle, O Beddowee girl, beloved so well ; Next to the fearless Nedjidee, Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee Next to ye both, I love the palm, With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm ; Next to ye both, I love the tree Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three With love and silence and mystery ! Our tribe is many, our poets vie With any under the Arab sky ; Yet none can sing of the palm but I. The marble minarets that begem Cairo's citadel-diadem Are not so light as his slender stem. He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance, As the Almehs lift their arms in dance, — BAYARD TAYLOR 259 A slumberous motion, a passionate sign, That works in the cells of the blood like wine. Full of passion and sorrow is he, Dreaming where the beloved may be ; And when the warm south-winds arise, He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, Quickening odors, kisses of balm, That drop in the lap of his chosen palm. The sun may flame, and the sands may stir, But the breath of his passion reaches her. tree of love, by that love of thine, Teach me how I shall soften mine ! Give me the secret of the sun, Whereby the wooed is ever won ! [f I were a king, O stately tree, A likeness, glorious as might be, In the court of my palace I'd build for thee ; 260 BAYARD TAYLOR With a shaft of silver, burnished bright, And leaves of beryl and malachite ; With spikes of golden bloom ablaze, And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase ; And there the poets, in thy praise, Should night and morning frame new lays. New measures, sung to tunes divine ; But none, O palm, should equal mine ! ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS 78 All Quiet along the Potomac " All quiet along the Potomac," they say, " Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing — a private or two now and then Will not count in the news of the battle ; Not an officer lost — only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle." All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fire, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh of the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 261 262 ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the low trundle-bed Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, For their mother ; may Heaven defend her ! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night, when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips — when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken. Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. He dashes off tears that are welling, ETHELINDA ELLIOTT BEERS 263 And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. " He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, The footstep is lagging and weary ; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shade of the forest so dreary. Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? It looked like a rifle ... " Ha ! Mary, good- by!" The red life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night ; No sound save the rush of the river ; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead — The picket's off duty forever ! WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE 79 Antony to Cleopatra "I am dying, Egypt, dying." — SHAKESPEARE'S Antony and Cleopatra, Act iv. Sc. 13. I am dying, Egypt, dying, Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, And the dark Plutonian shadows Gather on the evening blast ; Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; Listen to the great heart-secrets, Thou, and thou alone,, must hear. Though my scarred and veteran legions Bear their eagles high no more, And my wrecked and scattered galleys Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, Though no glittering guards surround me, Prompt to do their master's will, 264 WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE 265 I must perish like a Roman, Die the great Triumvir still. Let not Caesar's servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low ; 'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him, 'Twas his own that struck the blow : His who, pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory's ray, His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away. Should the base plebeian rabble Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her ; say the gods bear witness — Altars, augurs, circling wings — That her blood, with mine commingled, Yet shall mount the throne of kings As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! 266 WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE Light the path to Stygian horrors With the splendors of thy smile. Give the Caesar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine ; I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. I am dying, Egypt, dying ! Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. They are coming — quick, my falchion ! Let me front them ere I die. Ah ! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell ; Isis and Osiris guard thee ! Cleopatra — Rome — farewell ! ROSE TERRY COOKE 80 Rive du Midi When o'er the mountain steeps The hazy noontide creeps, And the shrill cricket sleeps Under the grass ; When soft the shadows lie, And clouds sail o'er the sky, And the idle winds go by, With the heavy scent of blossoms as they pass, — Then, when the silent stream Lapses as in a dream, And the water-lilies gleam Up to the sun ; When the hot and burdened day Rests on its downward way, When the moth forgets to play, And the plodding ant may dream her work is done, — 267 268 ROSE TERRY COOKE Then, from the noise of war And the din of earth afar, Like some forgotten star Dropt from the sky, — The sounds of love and fear, All voices sad and clear, Banished to silence drear, — The willing thrall of trances sweet I lie. Some melancholy gale Breathes its mysterious tale, Till the rose's lips grow pale With her sighs ; And o'er my thoughts are cast Tints of the vanished past, Glories that faded fast, Renewed to splendor in my dreaming eyes. As poised on vibrant wings, Where its sweet treasure swings, The honey-lover clings To the red flowers, — ROSE TERRY COOKE 269 So, lost in vivid light, So, rapt from day and night, I linger in delight, Enraptured o'er the vision-freighted hours. RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 8 1 It Never Comes Again There are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign ; Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again. Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain ; We behold it everywhere, On the earth, and in the air, But it never comes again. 270 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 271 82 The Sea Through the night, through the night, In the saddest unrest, Wrapt in white, all in white, With her babe on her breast, Walks the mother so pale, Staring out on the gale, Through the night. Through the night, through the night Where the sea lifts the wreck, Land in sight, close in sight, On the surf-flooded deck, Stands the father so brave, Driving on to his grave, Through the night. COATES KINNEY 83 Rain on the Roof When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter Of the soft rain overhead ! Every tinkle on the shingles Has an echo in the heart ; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start, And a thousand recollections Weave their air-threads into woof, As I listen to the patter Of the rain upon the roof. 272 COATES KINNEY 273 Now in memory comes my mother, As she used, in years agone, To regard the darling dreamers Ere she left them till the dawn : ! I see her leaning o'er me, As I list to this refrain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. Then my little seraph sister, With the wings and waving hair, And her star-eyed cherub brother — A serene angelic pair ! — Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur Of the soft rain on the roof. And another comes, to thrill me With her eyes' delicious blue ; And I mind not, musing on her, That her heart was all untrue : 1 remember but to love her With a passion kin to pain, 274 COATES KINNEY And my heart's quick pulses vibrate To the patter of the rain. Art hath naught of tone or cadence That can work with such a spell In the soul's mysterious fountains, Whence the tears of rapture well, As that melody of nature, * That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain. HENRY TIMROD ?4 Dreams Who first said "False as dreams"? Not one who saw Into the wild and wondrous world they sway ; No thinker who hath read their mystic law ; No poet who hath weaved them in his lay. Else had he known that through the human breast Cross and recross a thousand fleeting gleams, rhat, passed unnoticed in the day's unrest, Come out at night, like stars, in shining dreams ; That minds too busy or too dull to mark The dim suggestion of the noisier hours, By dreams in the deep silence of the dark Are roused at midnight with their folded powers. 275 276 HENRY TIMROD Like that old fount beneath Dodona's oaks, That, dry and voiceless in the garish noon, When the calm night arose with modest looks, Caught with full wave the sparkle of the moon. If, now and then, a ghastly shape glide in, And fright us with its horrid gloom or glee, It is the ghost of some forgotten sin We failed to exorcise on bended knee. And that sweet face which only yesternight Came to thy solace, dreamer (didst thou read The blessing in its eyes of tearful light ?), Was but the spirit of some gentle deed. Each has its lesson ; for our dreams in sooth, Come they in shape of demons, gods, or elves, Are allegories with deep hearts of truth That tell us solemn secrets of ourselves. 1 i_ GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER 85 Carmen Bellicosum In their ragged regimentals Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not, When the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot ; When the files Of the isles, From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn, And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn ! Then with eyes to the front all, And with guns horizontal, Stood our sires ; 277 278 GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly- Blazed the fires ; As the roar On the shore, Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green- sodded acres Of the plain ; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain ! » Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers ; And the "villanous saltpetre" Rung a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears ; As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor, On our flanks ; GUY HUMPHREY McMASTER 279 Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old- fashioned fire > Through the ranks ! Then the bare-headed colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud ; And his broadsword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet-loud. Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder, Hurling death ! PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 86 Preexistence While sauntering through the crowded street, Some half-remembered face I meet, Albeit upon no mortal shore That face, methinks, has smiled before. Lost in a gay and festal throng, I tremble at some tender song, — Set to an air whose golden bars I must have heard in other stars. In sacred aisles I pause to share The blessings of a priestly prayer, — When the whole scene which greets mine eyes In some strange mode I recognize As one whose every mystic part I feel prefigured in my heart. 280 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 28 1 At sunset, as I calmly stand, A stranger on an alien strand, Familiar as my childhood's home Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. One sails toward me o'er the bay, And what he comes to do and say I can foretell. A prescient lore Springs from some life outlived of yore. O swift, instinctive, startling gleams Of deep soul-knowledge ! not as dreams For aye ye vaguely dawn and die, But oft with lightning certainty Pierce through the dark, oblivious brain, To make old thoughts and memories plain, Thoughts which perchance must travel back Across the wild, bewildering track Of countless aeons ; memories far, High-reaching as yon pallid star, Unknown, scarce seen, whose flickering grace Faints on the outmost rings of space ! 282 PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 87 In Harbor I think it is over, over, I think it is over at last : Voices of foemen and lover, The sweet and the bitter have passed : Life, like a tempest of ocean, Hath outblown its ultimate blast: There's but a faint sobbing seaward, While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, And behold ! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last ! I feel it is over ! over ! For the winds and the waters surcease ; Ah, few were the days of the rover That smiled in the beauty of peace, And distant and dim was the omen That hinted redress or release ! From the ravage of life, and its riot, What marvel I yearn for the quiet Which bides in the harbor at last, — PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE 283 For the lights, with their welcoming quiver That throbs through the sanctified river, Which girdle the harbor at last, This heavenly harbor at last ? I know it is over, over, I know it is over at last ! Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover, For the stress of the voyage has passed : Life, like a tempest of ocean, Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast : There's but a faint sobbing seaward, While the calm of the tide deepens leeward ; And behold ! like the welcoming quiver Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, Those lights in the harbor at last, The heavenly harbor at last ! EMILY DICKINSON 88 / Never Saw a Moor I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea ; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be. I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven ; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given. 89 Indian Summer These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look. These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June, — A blue and gold mistake. 284 EMILY DICKINSON 285 Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief, Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf ! Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join, Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine ! HELEN HUNT JACKSON 90 Habeas Corpus My body, eh ? Friend Death, how now ? Why all this tedious pomp of writ ? Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow For half a century, bit by bit. In faith thou knowest more to-day Than I do, where it can be found ! This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, To which I now am chained and bound, Has not of kith or kin a trace To the good body once I bore ; Look at this shrunken, ghastly face : Didst ever see that face before ? Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art ; Thy only fault thy lagging gait, Mistaken pity in thy heart For timorous ones that bid thee wait. 286 HELEN HUNT JACKSON 287 Do quickly all thou hast to do, Nor I nor mine will hindrance make ; I shall be free when thou art through ; I grudge thee naught that thou must take ! Stay ! I have lied : I grudge thee one, Yes, two I grudge thee at this last, — Two members which have faithful done My will and bidding in the past. I grudge thee this right hand of mine ; I grudge thee this quick-beating heart ; They never gave me coward sign, Nor played me once a traitor's part. I see now why in olden days Men in barbaric love or hate Nailed enemies' hands at wild.crossways, Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state : The symbol, sign, and instrument Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent Their all of love, their all of life. 288 HELEN HUNT JACKSON O feeble, mighty human hand ! fragile, dauntless human heart ! The universe holds nothing planned With such sublime, transcendent art ! Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine Poor little hand, so feeble now ; Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, Its veins so pallid and so slow — {Unfinished here.] Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art ; 1 shall be free when thou art through. Take all there is — take hand and heart: There must be somewhere work to do. Her last poem: August 7, 1885. MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND Rest I lay me down to sleep, With little care Whether my waking find Me here, or there. A bowing, burdened head That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast. My good right hand forgets Its cunning now ; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong, — all that is past ; 289 290 MARY W00LSEY HOWLAND I am ready not to do, At last, at last. My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part, — I give a patient God My patient heart ; And grasp his banner still, Though all the blue be dim ; These stripes as well as stars Lead after him. JOHN JAMES INGALLS 92 Opportunity " Master of human destinies am I ! Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk ; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and passing by Hovel and mart and palace — soon or late I knock unbidden once at every gate ! " If sleeping, wake — if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death ; but those who doubt or hesitate.. Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore. I answer not, and I return no more ! " 291 GEORGE ARNOLD 93 September Sweet is the voice that calls From babbling waterfalls In meadows where the downy seeds are flying; And soft the breezes blow, And eddying come and go In faded gardens where the rose is dying. Among the stubbled corn The blithe quail pipes at morn, The merry partridge drums in hidden places, And glittering insects gleam Above the reedy stream, Where busy spiders spin their filmy laces. At eve, cool shadows fall Across the garden wall, And on the clustered grapes to purple turning ; 292 GEORGE ARNOLD 293 And pearly vapors lie Along the eastern sky, Where the broad harvest-moon is redly burning. Ah, soon on field and hill The wind shall whistle chill, And patriarch swallows call their flocks together, To fly from frost and snow, And seek for lands where blow The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather. The cricket chirps all day, " O fairest summer, stay ! " The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts brown- ing; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar, And hasten southward ere the skies are frown- ing. Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar-trees, And round about my temples fondly lingers, 294 GEORGE ARNOLD In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress. Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant, In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present ! HENRY AMES BLOOD 94 The Song of the Savoyards Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight The tumult of her motley throng, When high and clear upon the night Rose an inspiring song, And rang above the city's din To sound of harp and violin ; A simple but a manly strain, And ending with the brave refrain — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! And now, where rose that song of cheer, Both young and old stood still for joy; Or from the windows hung to hear The children of Savoy : And many an eye with rapture glowed, And saddest hearts forgot their load, And feeble souls grew strong again, So stirring was the brave refrain — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! 295 296 HENRY AMES BLOOD Alone, with only silence there, Awaiting his life's welcome close, A sick man lay, when on the air That clarion arose ; So sweet the thrilling cadence rang, It seemed to him an angel sang, And sang to him ; and he would fain Have died upon that heavenly strain — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! A sorrow-stricken man and wife, With nothing left them but to pray, Heard streaming over their sad life That grand, heroic lay : And through the mist of happy tears They saw the promise-laden years ; And in their joy they sang again And carolled high the fond refrain — Courage ! Courage, moil camarade ! Two artists, in the cloud of gloom Which hung upon their hopes deferred, Resounding through their garret-room That noble chanson heard ; HENRY AMES BLOOD 297 And, as the night before the day, Their weak misgivings fled away ; And with the burden of the strain They made their studio ring again — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! Two poets who in patience wrought The glory of an aftertime, — Lords of an age which knew them not, Heard rise that lofty rhyme ; And on their hearts it fell, as falls The sunshine upon prison walls ; And one caught up the magic strain And to the other sang again — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! And unto one, who, tired of breath And day and night and name and fame, Held to his lips a glass of death, That song a saviour came ; Beseeching him from his despair, As with the passion of a prayer ; 298 HENRY AMES BLOOD And kindling in his heart and brain The valor of its blest refrain — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! O thou, with earthly ills beset, Call to thy lips those words of joy, And never in thy life forget The brave song of Savoy ! For those dear words may have the power To cheer thee in thy darkest hour ; The memory of that loved refrain Bring gladness to thy heart again ! — Courage ! Courage, mon camarade ! ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 95 Sentinel Songs 1 When falls the soldier brave Dead — at the feet of wrong, — The poet sings, and guards his grave With sentinels of song. Songs, march ! he gives command, Keep faithful watch and true ; The living and dead of the Conquered Land Have now no guards save you. Grave Ballads ! mark ye well ! Thrice holy is your trust ! Go ! halt ! by the fields where warriors fell, Rest arms ! and guard their dust. List, Songs ! your watch is long ! The soldiers' guard was brief, 1 Selected from "Father Ryan's Poems," published by P. J. Kenedy, New York. Copyrighted. 299 300 ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, Ye may not seek relief. Go ! wearing the gray of grief ! Go ! watch o'er the Dead in Gray ! Go guard the private and guard the chief, And sentinel their clay ! And the songs, in stately rhyme, And with softly sounding tread, Go forth, to watch for a time — a time, Where sleep the Deathless Dead. And the songs, like funeral dirge, In music soft and low, Sing round the graves, — whilst hot tears surge From hearts that are homes of woe. What though no sculptured shaft Immortalize each brave? What though no monument epitaphed Be built above each grave ? When marble wears away, And monuments are dust, — ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 301 The songs that guard our soldiers' clay Will still fulfil their trust. With lifted head, and steady tread, Like stars that guard the skies, Go watch each bed, where rest the dead, Brave Songs ! with sleepless eyes. SIDNEY LANIER 96 Song of the Chattahoochee Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall. All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried Abide, abide, The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The loving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, 302 SIDNEY LANIER 303 The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Habersham, Here in the valleys of Hall. High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade ; the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold ; The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall. And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook- stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl ; And many a luminous jewel alone — Crystal clear or a-cloud with mist, 304 SIDNEY LANIER Ruby, or garnet, or amethyst — Made lures with the lights of streaming stone In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall. But oh ! not the hills of Habersham, And oh ! not the valleys of Hall Avail ; I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call ; Downward to toil and be mixed with the main, The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valleys of Hall. 97 A Ballad of Trees and the Master Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him ; The little gray leaves were kind to Him ; SIDNEY LANIER 305 The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods he came. Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last : 'Twas on a tree they slew Him — last, When out of the woods He came. JOHN HENRY BONER 98 Poes Cottage at Fordham Here lived the soul enchanted By melody of song ; Here dwelt the spirit haunted By a demoniac throng ; Here sang the lips elated ; Here grief and death were sated ; Here loved and here unmated Was he, so frail, so strong. Here wintry winds and cheerless The dying firelight blew, While he whose song was peerless Dreamed the drear midnight through, And from dull embers chilling Crept shadows darkly filling The silent place, and thrilling His fancy as they grew. 306 JOHN HENRY BONER 307 Here, with brow bared to heaven, In starry night he stood, With the lost star of seven Feeling sad brotherhood. Here in the sobbing showers Of dark autumnal hours He heard suspected powers Shriek through the stormy wood. From visions of Appllo And of Astarte's bliss, He gazed into the hollow And hopeless vale of Dis ; And though earth were surrounded By heaven, it still was mounded With graves. His soul had sounded The dolorous abyss. Proud, mad, but not defiant, He touched at heaven and hell, Fate found a rare soul pliant And rung her changes well. 308 JOHN HENRY BONER Alternately his lyre, Stranded with strings of fire, Led earth's most happy choir, Or flashed with Israfel. No singer of old story Luting accustomed lays, No harper for new glory, No mendicant for praise, He struck high chords and splendid, Wherein were fiercely blended Tones that unfinished ended With his unfinished days. Here through this lowly portal, Made sacred by his name, • Unheralded immortal The mortal went and came. And fate that then denied him, And envy that decried him, And malice that belied him, Have cenotaphed his fame. CAROLINE SPENCER 99 Living Waters There are some hearts like wells, green-mossed and deep As ever summer saw ; And cool their water is, — yea, cool and sweet; — But you must come to draw. They hoard not, yet they rest in calm content, And not unsought will give ; They can be quiet with their wealth unspent, So self-contained they live. And there are some like springs, that bubbling burst To follow dusty ways, And run with offered cup to quench his thirst Where the tired traveller strays ; That never ask the meadows if they want What is their joy to give ; 309 310 CAROLINE SPENCER Unasked, their lives to other life they grant, So self-bestowed they live ! And One is like the ocean, deep and wide, Wherein all waters fall ; That girdles the broad earth, and draws the tide, Feeding and bearing all; That breathes the mists, that sends the clouds abroad, That takes, again to give ; — Even the great and loving heart of God, Whereby all love doth live. RICHARD HOVEY IOO The Fatin A FRAGMENT I will go out to grass with that old King, For I am weary of clothes and cooks. I long to lie along the banks of brooks, And watch the boughs above me sway and swing. Come, I will pluck off custom's livery, Nor longer be a lackey to old Time, Time shall serve me, and at my feet shall fling The spoil of listless minutes. I shall climb The wild trees for my food, and run Through dale and upland as the fox runs free, Laugh for cool joy and sleep i' the warm sun, And men will call me mad, like that old King. For I am woodland-natured, and have made Dryads my bedfellows, And I have played 3" 312 RICHARD HOVEY With the sleek Naiads in the splash of the pools And made me mock of gowned and trousered fools. Helen, none knows Better than thou how like a Faun I strayed. And I am half Faun now, and my heart goes Out to the forest and the crack of twigs, The drip of wet leaves and the low soft laughter Of brooks that chuckle o'er old mossy jests And say them over to themselves, the nests Of squirrels and the holes the chipmunk digs, Where through the branches the slant rays Dapple with sunlight the leaf-matted ground, And the wind comes with blown vestures rustling after, And through the woven lattice of crisp sound A bird's song lightens like a maiden's face. O wildwood Helen, let them strive and fret, Those goggled men with their dissecting-knives ! Let them in charnel-houses pass their lives And seek in death life's secret ! And let Those hard-faced worldlings prematurely old Gnaw their thin lips with vain desire to get RICHARD HOVEY 313 Portia's fair fame or Lesbia's carcanet, Or crown of Caesar or Catullus, Apicius' lampreys or Crassus' gold ! For these consider many things — but yet By land or sea They shall not find the way to Arcady, The old home of the awful heart-dear Mother, Whereto child-dreams and long rememberings lull Far from the cares that overlay and smother The memories of old woodland out-door mirth In the dim first life-burst centuries ago, The sense of the freedom and nearness of Earth — Nay, this they shall not know ; For who goes thither Leaves all the cark and clutch of his soul behind, The doves defiled and the serpents shrined, The hates that wax and the hopes that wither; Nor does he journey, seeking where it be, But wakes and finds himself in Arcady. Hist ! there's a stir in the brush. Was it a face through the leaves ? 314 RICHARD HOVEY Back of the laurels a skurry and rush Hillward, then silence except for the thrush That throws one song from the dark of the bush And is gone ; and I plunge in the wood, and the swift soul cleaves Through the swirl and the flow of the leaves, As a swimmer stands with his white limbs bare to the sun For the space that a breath is held, and drops in the sea ; And the undulant woodland folds round me, in- timate, fluctuant, free, Like the clasp and the cling of the waters, and the reach and the effort is done, — There is only the glory of living, exultant to be. O goodly damp smell of the ground ! O rough sweet bark of the trees ! O clear sharp cracklings of sound ! O life that's a-thrill and a-bound With the vigor of boyhood and morning, and the noontide's rapture of ease ! Was there ever a weary heart in the world ? RICHARD HOVEY 315 A lag in the body's urge or a flag of the spirit's wings ? Did a man's heart ever break For a lost hope's sake ? For here there is lilt in the quiet and calm in the quiver of things. Ay, this old oak, gray-grown and knurled, Solemn and sturdy and big, Is as young of heart, as alert and elate in his rest, As the nuthatch there that clings to the tip of the twig And scolds at the wind that buffets too rudely its nest. Oh, what is it breathes in the air ? Oh, what is it touches my cheek ? There's a sense of a presence that lurks in the branches. But where ? Is it far, is it far to seek ? INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE A child said, What is the grass ? 223 All grim and soiled and brown with tan 147 " All quiet along the Potomac," they say 261 Among the beautiful pictures 240 As a twig trembles, which a bird 221 At midnight, in his guarded tent 34 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 159 Blessings on thee, little man 136 Bravely thy old arms fling 176 Burly dozing humblebee ! 105 Columbia, Columbia, to glory arise 3 Dark as the clouds of even 252 Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way . . . 201 Deep in the wave is a coral grove 42 Fair flower, that dost so comely grow I Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight 295 From gold to gray 152 From the Desert I come to thee 256 Gay, guiltless pair 40 Give me the splendid silent sun 231 God sends his teachers unto every age 204 3*7 318 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE Good-by, proud world, I'm going home 115 Green be the turf above thee 33 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay . . . . 160 Hear the sledges with the bells — 90 Here lived the soul enchanted 306 His echoing axe the settler swung 168 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood . 14 I am dying, Egypt, dying 264 I fill this cup to one made up 57 I heard the trailing garments of the Night 120 I lay me down to sleep 289 I like a church, I like a cowl in I love to wander through the woodlands hoary .... 66 I never saw a moor 284 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes .... 108 In their ragged regimentals 277 Into the woods my Master went 304 I think it is over, over 282 I will go out to grass with that old King 311 Let me move slowly through the street 48 Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown . . . 109 Master of human destinies am I ! 291 My body, eh ? Friend Death, how now ? 286 My soul to-day 244 New England's dead ! New England's dead ! . . . . 117 Next to thee, O fair gazelle 258 No more these simple flowers belong 141 Not in the sky 80 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 319 PAGE O Captain ! my Captain ! 229 O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray 62 O faint, delicious, spring-time violet ! 236 Once upon a midnight dreary 95 One sweetly solemn thought 242 One year ago, — a ringing voice 183 O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light 7 Out of the hills of Habersham 302 Pause not to dream of the future before us 172 Sleep, love, sleep ! 191 Sparkling and bright in liquid light 83 Summer has gone 186 Sweet is the voice that calls 292 Thank Heaven ! the crisis — 85 The day is done, and the darkness 132 The melancholy days are corne, the saddest of the year . 50 The Pilgrim Fathers — where are they ? 17 The shadows lay along Broadway 78 The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain . . 23 There are gains for all our losses 270 There are some hearts like wells, green-mossed and deep 309 There is no flock, however watched and tended .... 127 There stood an unsold captive in the mart 69 These are the days when birds come back 284 This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling 121 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign 157 Thou blossom bright with autumn dew 55 Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea 20 Through the night, through the night 271 HTis the middle watch of a summer's night 28 320 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE To him who in the love of Nature holds 44 To weary hearts, to mourning homes 135 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house 10 Up from the South at break of day 248 We count the broken lyres that rest 166 We sat within the farm-house old 125 What is the little one thinking about ? 195 When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast 212 When descends on the Atlantic . .. 130 When falls the soldier brave 299 When Freedom, from her mountain height 25 When Nature had made all her birds 179 When o'er the mountain steeps 267 When the humid shadows hover . 272 While sauntering through the crowded street .... 280 Whither, 'midst falling dew 53 Who first said " false as dreams " ? Not one who saw . 275 Why sits she thus in solitude ? Her heart 238 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 198 Winged mimic of the woods ! thou motley fool ! . . . 22 Woodman, spare that tree ! 60 JAN 1906 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 017 189 246 6 II HRL Hi